Marriage — Page 2

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

Rick Steves, Anniversaries, and Italy – A Deeper Story

June 17, 2014 By Diana

It’s time for my monthly post at A Deeper Story. Here’s a sampler . . .

This is a story about being married. It’s an anniversary story, an old one, nearly twenty years ago now, but a true one, and a good one. It began as an adventure, sank pretty quickly to a disaster, and ended with joyful re-discovery.

My husband had to be in London for business, so we figured, “Why not make a trip of it? Let’s go to Italy, rent a car and see as much as we can see.” We’d done that for our 25th — driving all around England, Scotland and Wales, following Rick Steves’s advice the whole way, and we had a fabulous time.

This, however, was a different experience entirely. First off, the London meeting got moved to New York. Well, okay. Hmm. Let’s see what we can do about those tickets. And what we could do with those tickets wasn’t much – NYC to CHICAGO to Milan, turning an eight-hour trip into twice that.

Oh, and while we were in New York, one of our bags got lost – the hotel’s fault – and I spent two days frantically replenishing my husband’s travel wardrobe, purchasing a new suitcase, and replacing my Bible and journal, and — serendipitously — picking up a delightful small guide book featuring ‘inns and itineraries’ of Italia.

Thirtieth Anniversary Trip, here we come!

Except when we landed in Milan, things got a little dicey. I tend to . . . how shall I put this? Take too much stuff everywhere I go. And we had seven — count them — seven pieces of luggage, including two roller bags, two backpacks, a purse and two smaller carry-ons — and after we went through customs, we thought we’d lost one of the backpacks. Dick went to find it, I got on the bus to town with the rest of the bags, and sure enough, the bus took off – leaving Dick with our only Italian money at the airport, and me with all our luggage (yes, all our luggage) headed toward the center of Milan – each of us alone.

And it went downhill from there.

Please join me for the rest of this tale over at A Deeper Story . . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Family, A Deeper Story, Beauty, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, hope, Marriage, memoir, personal journey

I’ll Love You Forever

June 15, 2014 By Diana

The longer I live,
the more convinced I am that
the way fathers love their daughters
has a profound impact on the
fabric of society.

My dad, half-smiling on the outside. Always smiling on the inside.

As we have walked this last leg of the journey
with each of our mothers,
we’ve seen this truth in surprising,
and sometimes beautiful ways.

My mother-in-law grew up with an affectionate,
charming, faithful, imaginative, wordsmith for a father,
a man who adored his daughter
and told her so with every breath.
She never once doubted herself,
even as the fog of dementia rolled in
and slowly erased her life.

My mom grew up with a damaged dad,
a man who left his family of origin after
being cheated by his own father,
and then drank and gambled his way
through mom’s early years.
He seldom had a kind word for
anyone in that house.
And my mother is riddled with self-doubt,
often convinced that others
believe her to be a terrible person.

I’m sure there are more factors at play than just this one. Basic personality traits between these two good women
are markedly different in several ways.

However, I remain convinced that ‘just this one’
marks out one of the most basic ways
in which our two moms have faced
into their long, last journey in life.

I believe that a father’s unconditional love is foundational
for each one of us.
But for female children?
It is critical and crucial.
It can sometimes make the difference between
humble self-acceptance and crippling self-doubt.
I also believe that the formation of the female spirit is
critically important for the healthy development of
family, culture, church.

In other words, it’s a big deal for girls/women to have a loving father (or father figure) somewhere in their story.

Working through some puzzles with our eldest daughter, one of several in our family tree who have inherited his mathematical and logical gifts. I am not one of those.

My own dad adored me.
And I knew it.
All my life, I have been deeply grateful for that truth.

I’ve got insecurities by the bushel basketful,
that is true enough.
But I have never doubted my father’s
deep and abiding love for me.
Not once.

And I believe that sweet piece of my story says a whole lot about who I am today.

Mom and dad in the 80s.

My father was a school teacher and a musician,
a handyman and a thoughtful, interesting person.
He liked butter on white bread, Buicks,
and playing the piano.
He was quiet, wise, gentle and good.
And he had an absolutely killer sense of humor,
a dry wit that would pop out from time to time,
most likely very soon after you’d decided that he
wasn’t even really listening to the conversation.

My beautiful, fun mama.

He was crazy-nuts about my mother,
and they made quite a pair,
she all bubbles and up-front laughter,
he behind-the-scenes deep and sometimes mysterious.

My father’s hands were big enough to span an octave,
plus 2 or 3,
and strong enough to hold a crying baby,
bringing calm and quiet more efficiently than
anyone else I knew.
He loved being a grandfather
and his grandkids idolized him in so many ways.

Me, in the 80s – a combo of the two of them, don’t you think?

He gave his testimony in church once,
speaking honestly about his own wrestling spirit,
and eloquently about the truth that his faith was his life.
And if it wasn’t his life —
if it wasn’t changing the way he lived that life —
then it wasn’t worth much, was it?

Dad believed that a Jesus-follower should be steady,
sturdy,
devoted and
careful.

And more than once,
he gently but firmly reminded me to
live that way, too.

I love you, Daddy.
I miss you every day and,
as you know —
I talk to you with some regularity!
You’ve been gone from this place for
almost a decade now,
and though I’m grateful that your struggles
with health and frailty are behind you,
I wish you —
the healthy, happy you —
were still here with us.

I miss your advice,
your kindness,
your steadiness
and your unshakeable loyalty.
The older I get, the more I realize
how rare those qualities are,
and the more I miss your being here to model them for us.

I’ll love you forever, Dad.
And I thank God for your love every day that I breathe.

Filed Under: death, Doubt, Encouragement, family, Grandparenting, Marriage, memoir, Mystery, parenting, personal journey

A Delight, Not a Duty

May 19, 2014 By Diana

We flew the coop yesterday.
Took off for parts north, ready for a break in the usual,
needing some beauty to refresh, to encourage,
to ready us for what comes next.

Worship was exactly what we needed,
a good send-off for four days away.
We have clearly moved into summer mode
at Montecito Covenant Church,
with a more relaxed feel, a slight decrease in
the numbers as college students return home,
and vacation season begins.

Pastor Jon talked about hospitality,
about creating welcome,
about being the gospel for one another.
And about how our Good Book
paints a long series of pictures
to try and help us understand what it means
to be one who welcomes.
And every one of those pictures
centers on a table,
on shared food and drink,
on feasting and partying and living life fully.

The delightful altar piece brought back strong memories.
In the 1980’s, I served as the first chairperson of a newly created
Worship and Arts Committee at our home church in Pasadena CA.
And for a similar service about hospitality,
I had created a table scene for worship,
and that was almost 30 years ago now.

I am so grateful for those years,
for learning and growing,
for the freedom to try new things,
sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing,
but always hearing words of gratitude and encouragement.

Those dear friends in that dear place welcomed me,
they lived out the truth that Jon spoke in and around and throughout
his excellent sermon yesterday morning.
The truth that,

“Salvation is not a task to be done,
but a meal to be shared and enjoyed,
a delight, not a duty.”

It is so easy to forget this,
to fall into the sinkhole of works righteousness,
or to forget to be on the lookout
for ‘angels unaware,’
as our text for the morning reminded us.

We lunched with “The Moms,”
our practice on Sundays,
smiling and soothing,
encouraging and entertaining.
These good women are among those
with whom we try to practice hospitality
these days.

And then we began the drive north,
enjoying what’s left of the green-up brought
by rains in April but fading fast in the
extraordinary heat of May.

There are almost as many vineyards as oak trees now,
covering the hills with their sinewy spring growth,
their geometric precision in such sharp juxtaposition
to the wildness of oaks and chaparral.

This is a favorite drive, bringing to mind
our monthly treks north for me to meet with Abbot David,
and how much I miss that man.

We both acknowledged that
this a trip we needed to take.
I can feel the tension flowing out my husband’s fingertips
as he steers the car on these familiar roads.

And as we lug our stuff into our home for the next few days,
we are reminded again of why we do these things,
why we love to travel together,
why getting-away-from-home,
even a home we dearly love,
is good medicine.

We sink with gratitude into the deck chairs
on our small balcony,
breathing in the salt,
and the sea,
and the shoreline.

And we remember.
We remember that marriage is also
a delight, and not a duty.
That traveling through life,
with all its circuitry, its ups and downs,
is richer because we do it together.

We watched the sun setting on the sand,
enjoying an order-in dinner,
settling into this space-away,
welcoming one another.

And it was delightful.

Joining this one with Kelli Woodford, who has kindly taken over from Michelle DeRusha’s weekly check-in, with dear Laura Boggess, and with Jennifer Dukes Lee’s Tell His Story, and for the first time, with Holley Gerth’s link up, which I just discovered.

And one last time with the wonderful Jen Ferguson and the Soli Deo Sisterhood.

Filed Under: Beauty, biblical reflection, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, Marriage, personal journey, Photo Essay

On Vulnerability and Boundaries — A Guest Post for Nacole Simmons

March 26, 2014 By Diana

In the fall of 2006, I got a new boss. He arrived on the scene after two years of searching, two years marked by upheaval in my life, personally and professionally. I had been working as an Associate Pastor, part-time, for almost ten years by then, and I was deeply relieved to welcome him and to learn to work with him and for him.

One of the first things he asked me to do was start a blog. Yes, you read that right. My boss, the senior pastor, asked me to begin writing on a blog. He already had one, and used it for brief reflections on life and ministry, very rarely for anything personal.

But I’m not wired in the same way, and when I was invited to write, I chose to get pretty vulnerable, pretty quickly. And I loved it. I was careful, especially when trying to write out the difficulties that always attend a new working relationship. I tried to make it about me, and what I was thinking/feeling. And, for the most part, I found my way to a pretty good balance. I posted infrequently, about once or twice a month for that first year. I learned to import photos, and often chose to write about my family, especially my grandkids.

But in July of 2007, something hard happened. Our son-in-law was in the midst of a long and very difficult dying, suffering from the after-effects of intensive radiation to his head and neck when he was a teenager. Our daughter was trying to finish a masters’ degree in special education, so that she could go to work after fifteen years as a homemaker. Her husband was on full disability at that point, and they desperately needed medical insurance. Her program required a 10-week internship at a hospital 400 miles north of her home and she worked like a champ to make everything happen. Some weeks, her husband was well enough to go with her, but some weeks, he needed to be closer to home.

We housed her husband and two younger sons (the eldest was working at a camp on Catalina Island that summer) for one of those closer-to-home weeks. And that experience was one of the most difficult times I’ve ever walked through. Watching someone you love suffer — and watching how that suffering impinges on the lives of two young people — well, it was hard, sad, painful. . . there are no words.

But I tried to find them anyhow. I wrote a post, not using names, about watching this particular kind of suffering. I finished it late one night, posted it and went to bed. At 7:00 the next morning, I went in and removed it, feeling unsettled about writing something so deeply personal.

The post was up for less than twelve hours.

But in that time, someone close to him found it and was deeply wounded by it. I was crushed — repentant, sorrowful, so sorry for causing pain and for further complicating my daughter’s life. My heroic girl was already exhausted and overwhelmed and my post made everything worse.

I crossed a line, one that I deeply regret.

Please follow me over to Nacole’s site to read the rest of this post . . .

Filed Under: Blogging, Confession, Encouragement, family, Grandparenting, Guest Post, Hard Things, Marriage, personal journey, Spiritual Formation, Storytelling, The Journey with Mom

FOUND: a Story of Questions, Grace & Everyday Prayer — A Book Review

March 11, 2014 By Diana

Sometimes when I read a book that is new to me, and I discover that I like it, that I’m intrigued by some of the ideas presented or the way language is used, I dog-ear a page that catches my eye. If the book really speaks to my heart, you might find 20 or 30 such pages scattered throughout.

Micha Boyett’s beautiful new book — part memoir, part prayer journal, part glory — has so many down-turned pages that I can no longer close it completely. Oh my, this woman can write! And what she writes? It speaks right into my heart, with hope, honesty and beauty.

I’ve read Micha’s blog, Mama Monk, for over three years now, made the move with her to Patheos, even guest-posted for her once. So I’ve been looking forward to seeing her heart and reading her words in a longer format for quite a while. And I am not disappointed. Micha has been on a journey, a search, for the heart of prayer, the heart of God. A pastor to students in her twenties, convinced that God had Big Plans for her life, plans that she ‘needed’ to discover and fulfill, she found herself in her early thirties as a stay-at-home mom to one, and then two beautiful boys.

What happened to those Big Plans, she wondered? Was she somehow missing the Important Work God had for her to do? Over the course of this gentle book — outlined according to the prayer schedule of St. Benedict — she learns that where she is right now is, indeed, important. That the work she does, the rhythms of child-care, housework, hospitality, marriage and writing — these are the things of life, and Spirit and love-made-real.

Reading that last paragraph might make you think that this is a book for women. Yes, it is. It is also a book for men. This is a book for anyone who earnestly desires to discover God in the midst of the movements of an ordinary day, anyone who longs to know that the work of their hands is blessed and beautiful.

Along the way, Micha writes evocatively about taking time for silence and retreat at a couple of local monasteries, she describes what she learns in spiritual direction, she shows us how her husband helps her to see herself and her ideas about God in new and different ways, she whispers that loneliness can be an invitation to a deeper faith. And somewhere in there, she talks about . . . fly-fishing.

Just two pages, a small story — but one of the most beautiful things I’ve read in a long, long time. Here’s a small piece of it:

“I raise my rod and cast the line out. It’s beautiful. Sometimes I think fly-fishing is like praying the rosary; moving slow through each bead, letting the physical act move my unfocused body from distraction into awareness. It’s the repetition, the sameness of coming to God with simple words and rhythm, that opens me to recognize the God-already-here. . . Prayer is not as hard as I make it out to be. Again and again, lift and unfold. Lay that line out, let it meander a little. Do it again. I am not profound. I am not brave in spirit. My faith is threadbare and self-consumed, but I am loved, I am loved, I am loved.” – pg. 226-227

With all my heart, I recommend this book to you. It is rich, captivating, lush with beautiful language and ideas. And most of all, it is touchable. Micha is no plaster saint, she is a real, flesh-and-blood woman, wife, mother, pastor, writer, seeker. She invites you along for the journey, and friends? it is a trip so worth taking.

I received an advanced reader’s copy of this lovely book. In exchange for that, I committed to write an honest review. This is it. Buy this book. Mark it up, keep it nearby, go back to it, keep a list of favorite lines. Yes. Do it.

Here are what a few others are saying about this fine book:

“I devoured this kind and generous book: Micha is singing the longings of all the tired mother
pilgrims. Every word is like motherhood: elegant, earthy, loving, and present.”
—Sarah Bessey, author of Jesus Feminist

“With this beautiful book, Micha Boyett opens a door to Benedictine spirituality through
regular, busy people can enter and taste, see, smell, hear, and feel what it means to live life as a
prayer. This debut sets Boyett apart as one of the most promising new writers of a generation.”
—Rachel Held Evans, author of A Year of Biblical Womanhood

“Reading Found is like taking a deep breath of grace. You’ll hear the echo of your own
questions and doubts in the gentle ways Micha Boyett addresses her own, and by the end,
you’ll feel the quiet goodness of enough. For anyone who’s ever gotten prayer all tangled up in
performance—this one’s for you.”
—Addie Zierman, author of When We Were On Fire: A Memoir of Consuming Faith,
Tangled Love and Starting Over

“This book is stunning. Beautifully written, Micha Boyett’s Found is a penetrating story, rich
in humanity and faith, the kind of book that stays with you long after you’ve read its last page.
Like Henri Nouwen and Madeline L’Engle, Boyett’s spiritual journey is divinely practical, a
relatable and potentially anointed narrative that renews, inspires, and reminds us that we are not
lost.”
—Matthew Paul Turner, author of Churched and Our Great Big American God

“Micha Boyett is in search for the beauty in the everyday, the prayer that hides itself in dinners
and diapers and naps. She is as skilled of a tour guide for Benedictine spirituality as she is for
her own story, and in these pages you will find that the sacred has been there all along.”
—Adam S. McHugh, author of Introverts in the Church

“In Found, Micha Boyett tells the small story of her own redemptions, inviting readers into a
life of earnest spiritual seeking. Written in reflective bursts of prose mirroring monastic hours
and the holy calendar, Boyett has created an account of spiritual resolve, believing that the
most important journeys of the heart are the modest ones.”
—Dave Harrity, director of ANTLER and author of Making Manifest: On Faith,
Creativity, and the Kingdom at Hand

Filed Under: Book Review, Church, church year, community, Encouragement, God's gifts, Marriage, memoir, ministry, personal journey, prayer, Spiritual Direction, Spiritual Formation, Storytelling

A Letter to the Girl(s) I Once Was . . .

March 7, 2014 By Diana

The Story Sessions community issued an invitation to speak to and for the girls we once were. And Bonnie over at Faith Barista has Lenten prompt on “Remember.” This piece seems to fit both places! My story is not particularly dramatic — no abuse to report, no major trauma in my home. In fact, I would venture to say that it’s downright boring, especially when lined up with some of these sisters, whose lives bear testimony to both horror and redemption. Still, like every human who has ever walked the planet, I knew my share of sorrow and confusion. Also? I have lived longer than almost everyone else who will contribute today, so there are LOTS of ‘girls’ to address . . .

Look at you! Such a big girl!

And you were, too.
A very big girl.
Tall, right from the get-go,
smart and talkative and quite the walker,
or so I’m told.

You loved life!
Loved it —
all the people,
the streets and houses —
. . . and the busses.
Oh, how you loved to watch
the bus go by.
“There-sa goes da bus!”
you’d yell and point.

I think you’ve done a lot of yelling
and pointing in me,
little one.
You want me to see things,
to pay attention.
And I’m trying, honey!
I thank you for helping
me to keep my eyes
and my heart O P E N.

Just barely two years old and
an interloper appeared on the scene.

And he was SO cute, wasn’t he?
He didn’t have funny feet,
or terrible skin,
or stick-straight hair
that mommy always wanted
to curl, curl, curl.

But you kinda liked him anyhow,
even though you did fight now and again.

Only trouble was, his derring-do
made you want to be ‘the good girl,’
and you’ve spent an awful lot of years
playing that role, haven’t you?

Maybe it’s time to let that one go?

Your dad’s mama lived in downtown Los Angeles,
in a sweet little bungalow.

And oh, how she loved you!
But she was so old,
and she told stories
about the south, about her home,
in Arkansas.

And sometimes the way she talked
made you feel funny.
Especially the way she talked
about people of color,
even though you’d never
heard that phrase in your young life.

Your mom and dad loved each other a lot,
didn’t they?
And sometimes, you felt like an outsider
around them.

Most of the time, their love
made you feel safe and sure.
But once in a while,
they shut you out,
and that was confusing.

Oh, I see that dreamy look in your eyes!
And I salute it. Dream on, girl!

Live inside your head all you want to,
curl up in the corner and read, read, read.
Don’t worry if you don’t want to socialize,
no matter how your mom fusses at you.

And pay attention in 5th grade,
when Mr. Naismith tells you you’re a writer.
Believe him. Believe it.

High school was kinda crazy, right?
Thank God for the church group,
because at school?
You were the resident nerd.
Choir helped, though.
You met so many different
kinds of kids, most of them
so.much.fun!
It was great to break out of the
molds that held you —
the brainiac and the church girl.

Yeah, singing was a good thing.

And then came college.
And the task at hand?
Meet a good, Christian man
and get married!
And you did that,
right on schedule.

Aren’t you glad you found a good one?
Even when he makes you crazy,
he’s such a good man.
You SCORED.

That talkative toddler,
and that displaced sister and daughter,
and that dreamy 10-year-old,
and that nerdy high schooler,
well they all showed up
on that December afternoon
when you tied the knot.

And despite the baggage you
brought from a conservative,
complementarian home,
together you found a new way
to be a couple,
to share the journey
as partners.

Of course, it took a few decades to do that.
And along the way,
you traveled halfway around the world,
you found yourself pregnant (!!),
you taught school,
and you lived on a boarding school campus
in a brand-new African nation.

The bike came in handy, didn’t it?
It helped you cement the independence
you were finding in those early
married years.

It gave the 10-year-old just a little
bit of breathing space,
and the toddler a chance to
see new things.

Trautwein_Scans_2_019 And when that beautiful girl was born?
Well, a whole new chapter opened up.
You had just turned 23,
and in the next four years,
you’d have two more babies,
and all those “girls” in there,
the toddler and the 10-year-old,
the one who played with baby dolls,
and the one who read through
the traveling library truck;
the one who was too tall,
and too awkward,
and too loud,
and too bossy,
and too. . .
well, they got a bit lost for
a while.

But today, you bless them all.
You call them out and say,
“Thank you!”
Because every age,
every stage,
every experience,
every relationship —
they are all part of who you are
right now.

And who you are right now?
Despite the infirmities of age
and injury,
well. . . you’re not half bad, you know?

Two years ago, I wrote a similar post, under the flag of my African Journey page. Here’s a link to that one.

Joining with Bonnie – click on over and read the rest.

Filed Under: An African Journal, Marriage, memoir, personal journey, Photo Essay, Spiritual Formation, Story Sessions Writing Prompts, synchro blogs/blog hops

A Sacramental Faith

February 10, 2014 By Diana

It’s been a rough week. A niggling ankle injury turned out to be a seriously shredded tendon, which may require surgery next month. In the meantime, I’m wearing a boot to try and immobilize it and encourage healing.

My mom took a nasty fall, splitting her fingers apart and bruising herself all along one side of her body. Fortunately, nothing was broken, but she is tired and more confused than ever.

My husband and I tend to take our worries out on one another, at least initially, and so we’ve been doing more than our share of sniping and growling. We’re moving back to center again, and I am glad.

I sit, with my foot iced and propped, encased in a serious boot, surrounded by too.much.stuff, all of which needs sorting. I wonder how and when to set aside enough time to do more than the basics. Meal prep, laundry, keeping appointments, writing – these seem to fill all the blanks on the calendar — and in my spirit — and there isn’t much room left.

I went to worship almost reluctantly yesterday. We’d missed the week before and I came close to missing again. I was tired, anxious and sore, not eager to make conversation with anyone, unsure about a lot of things.

Which, of course, is EXACTLY when I need to be there, sitting and standing with the community, offering praise to God in the middle of the mess and listening for the Spirit’s breathy voice in the midst of the sanctuary.

As I perused the bulletin before the service began, I saw that there would be space this week for prayer and anointing. This is not a usual occurrence for us, but as soon as I saw the words, I knew why I was there.

Turns out, a lot of people had the same response.

Even after all the years that church has been part of my life, even after almost 20 years of professional leadership in the church, I am still amazed at how and when the Spirit blows across a room full of people. It stuns me every time.

And every time it happens in this particular community of believers, there is something sacramental happening in the service. Eucharist, baptism, renewal of baptismal vows, anointing.

These physical signs of spiritual truths, these tactile things — they are the pieces that the Spirit of God uses in our midst to move us, shake us out of the pews, stir our hearts. I don’t understand it, I just recognize it when I see it.

It’s a powerful thing to see people streaming down the aisle to be touched by a pastor. We encourage prayer for healing after every single service, and very few people take advantage of those opportunities. But add oil? Make it part of the service itself?

They came by the dozens. And I went right up there with them.

The sermon leading into this event was built around a text in John 12, Mary pouring a large jar of pure, perfumed oil, spreading it lavishly all over the feet of Jesus. Pastor Don asked us to think about fragrances, how powerful they can be — for both good and ill. And the communion table featured trailing vines of jasmine, sending sweetness into the first few pews.

This is a story close to my heart. The very first sermon I ever preached in my life came from Mark’s version, and I preached on John’s text last year. (I w rote an abbreviated reflection on it during Holy Week.) And the closing line of my own reflection was right in line with yesterday’s theme: “. . . the surest sign of a true disciple is the delicious aroma that permeates every corner of the house.”

We had two kneelers in place, two pastors with vials of oil, and we sang. Oh, how we sang. “Holy Spirit, Come,” as printed on the screens and one or two others that rose spontaneously as we listened to that Breath of Life within us.

One of the joys of our worship is the participation of lay people in the service each week — in the reading of scripture and the offering of community prayer. Yesterday’s prayer was written and offered by one of our resident poets, Professor Paul Willis, whose words always slow me down and make me think. The ones he chose yesterday were strong, muscular, maybe even hard to hear at points. But they were exactly what we needed.

I invite you to pray them along with us as you read, because this prayer walks right with us, from the sanctuary of togetherness to the sanctuaries that we inhabit all around the city in the days between our gatherings. And those sanctuaries — our homes, places of employment, dorm rooms, school classrooms — these are reminders, too. Reminders that we are, indeed, a sacramental people, body, soul and spirit. . . of a piece.

Lord, so often we are satisfied with mere deodorant
to cover up our stinking selves.
What would it mean to learn a new fragrance,
to be a new fragrance,
to offer that fragrance to you?
What would it mean to take pure nard
from the farthest reaches of the Himalayas
and to pour it lovingly over your feet—the feet of our Savior?
What would it mean to bathe ourselves from head to toe
in the fragrance of our Savior’s blood?

Lord, make us each,
remake us each,
into that aroma which will consecrate us,
each one,
into that individual fragrance of holy service
you have uniquely set out for us,
each one of us,
a path of service and holiness
that you have marked out for each of us,
whether that path lead into the High Sierra
or into the lower East Side of Santa Barbara,
whether it lead to the front of the classroom or to the back,
whether it lead to changing laws in the legislature
or changing diapers in the nursery.

Lord, right now we’re stinking it up.
We always have been.
Fill us with your redeeming fragrance,
and let us offer it back to you.
Amen.
— Paul Willis, February 9, 2014

Sunlight through the poppies when we had lunch with ‘the moms’ after church.

Linking today with Michelle, Laura, Jen and Jennifer

Filed Under: Beauty, biblical reflection, community, Confession, Encouragement, God's gifts, Holy Spirit, Marriage, Spiritual Formation, Sunday Reflections, worship

About Settling Down . . . A Deeper Story

January 6, 2014 By Diana

Every month, I share a story at one of my favorite websites ever, A Deeper Story. This month, I am once again writing for the Family Channel. Here’s a piece of this month’s story and a link so you can read the rest:

You think you know so much when you’re twenty years old. When that third decade begins, you’re a little bit full of yourself, impressed with what you’ve learned in school and in life, and convinced that you’ll be able to handle whatever life throws your way.

And, if you were a 20-year-old raised in the 50s and 60s, you also understood the order of things, especially if you were a female. Even more especially if you were a female raised in the conservative wing of the Christian church. Your life was pretty well mapped out for you: childhood, adolescence, a little bit of young adulthood, marriage, motherhood.

Being an eldest child with a strong sense of propriety and extraordinarily overactive responsibility glands, you did exactly what was expected of you. So, in the year you turned 20, you got yourself married. You found a good, Christian man, dated him (carefully!) for a good long time, got engaged and then, of course, you “settled down.”

Well, five out of six ain’t bad, right? The meeting, finding, dating, engaging, marrying thing you did according to plan. It’s the settling down part you’ve struggled with for the last — how many is it now? — FORTY-EIGHT years.

I chalk it up to delayed and extended adolescent rebellion, that’s what. As an eager-to-please, hyper-obedient child and youth, you never truly rebelled against anything or anyone. And that remarkable man you married? He wasn’t exactly a rabble-rouser, either, was he?

Yet somehow, you’ve traveled this wild and wooly, sometimes adventurous, always unique journey-through-life that began with an afternoon of “I do’s” at the end of 1965. Now you’re taking a gander at 2014, as it rises out of the fog and begins to take shape. Holy crap, next year, you’ll hit the big 5-0. Can you believe it? Doesn’t that happen to old people?

I look at the pictures from this most recent anniversary and I still see those kids in there, those good kids who so wanted to do ‘the right thing,’ whatever the heck that was. Yes, the years have added pounds to our frames and lines to our faces and a whole lotta white hair to the head of at least one of us.

But you know what else I see? A couple of undercover rebels, that’s what. We obeyed the rules, we followed the protocol, yet somehow, we never managed to settle down, did we? At least, not in the way our parents envisioned settling.

Please click on this line to read the rest over at A Deeper Story. . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Family, A Deeper Story, Aging, Dreams/Dreaming, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, Grandparenting, Marriage, parenting, personal journey

A Letter to December

November 30, 2013 By Diana

Ah, Dear Friend,

We know each other well, do we not? So many years of immersion in all the folderol and all the richness of your seasonal gifts. Shall I list the ways?

the wedding plans, midway through my senior year of college
and all the subsequent anniversaries that got lost in the shuffle, some years more seriously than others — and there have been a lot of years, haven’t there? 48 on the 18th
a beautiful baby girl, 2nd of 2, born on the 2nd, with big brown eyes and a deliciously feisty spirit
choral concerts up the wazoo, every Christmas for most of my years until . . .
we moved to Santa Barbara for me to take a pastoral position in a church without a choir. Go figure.
writing Advent invitations for worship for about 20 years
preaching one Sunday in Advent for about 20 years, too
decorating the house with W-A-A-A-Y too many Christmas decorations, collected over the decades, starting with homemade delights from each of the kids and this year, adding some special ornaments from our moms’ collections
sweating (and swearing) our way to a steady, straight fresh tree in front of the windows; it gets harder every dang year
enjoying nativity sets collected from round the globe
singing the songs
reading the scriptures
pondering the mystery
regretting the over-spending
enjoying the gift-giving
collapsing on the 26th, exhausted but generally, more than content

I have a bit of a love-hate relationship with you, I must admit. The candlelit service on Christmas Eve gets me every time. But the lugging of bins, the setting up the stuff, the overkill with gifts — yeah, that has gone above and beyond what is needful and what is healthy at points.

So, December, what’s it gonna be? Will we find our way to a happy medium this year? Just enough of the good stuff and a little less of the not-so-good?

I pledge to do my part. Can you say the same?

Fondly,

Diana

This post is written in response to a prompt from Elora Nicole at her fabulous Story Sessions site. If you would like a series of thoughtful, evocative writing invitations, if you would enjoy being connected with a smaller (but ever-growing) group of other writers, may I suggest you check this site out? Just click here to read all about it.