personal journey

It’s Not That Easy Being Weird — A Guest Post

June 6, 2014 By Diana

One of the best books I’ve read this year is Michelle DeRusha’s beautiful, funny, and profound memoir called “Spiritual Misfit.” I’m honored to be guest-posting for her today, in her ongoing series about being a misfit. Here are the opening paragraphs of that essay . . .

All my life, I’ve been the one who didn’t quite fit. No matter where I’ve landed in my own spiritual journey, I’ve managed to be the one who is different — quirky, opinionated, on the edge.

I was the kid who had the most memory work badges and sang alto in the kids’ choir at our first church. But I was also the kid who hid out in the caretaker’s apartment, playing with his baby and talking to his wife instead of socializing around the punch bowl with the rest of the 5th graders.

We moved to a new town and a new church when I was 12. The youth group was huge and I went to every thing that was offered. I landed in the hard-working-leadership-tier, but never in the popular-kids-who-also-have-skills elite. And that was okay by me. I was tall and rangy and not terribly graceful. I was also physically fearful and lurking underneath my loud voice, an insecure, uncertain teenager.

I married young. It was a great decision for us, one that took us halfway around the world to live and work for two years. And I was really a misfit there. A southern California conservative looks nothing like a Pennsylvania holiness conservative and I found that out the hard way. Yet, somehow, we survived and even thrived in that beautiful place.

We had our kids early, and our grandkids even earlier. So for the last 40 years, we’ve been ahead of the curve by a long shot. And guess where that puts us now? Smack dab in the middle of just about everything. We find ourselves sandwiched between ailing parents, home-buying adult children, college-aged and pre-school grandkids.

We’ve found ourselves sandwiched between generations theologically, too —

Please come on over to Michelle’s beautiful space to read the rest of this weirdness. . .

Filed Under: Blogging, Book Essay, Confession, Encouragement, Grandparenting, Guest Post, hope, personal journey, Spiritual Formation, Spiritual Misfit

A Granddaughter Remembers — A Guest Post from My Daughter

June 3, 2014 By Diana

Visiting the blog tonight is my middle child, Joy Trautwein Stenzel. Joy is exactly what her name says she is – a joy to us. She and her husband Marcus are raising three good young men in Monrovia CA and are both special education teachers, working with blind students across the age span from pre-school to 22. (Our eldest daughter also does this good work.) Our children grew up with their paternal grandparents less than five minutes away and were often in their home, as you will see. I love the way this piece celebrates what some might call the ‘old-fashioned’ virtues. To me, there is nothing old-fashioned about any of it — it’s a heritage we are humbled and pleased to call our own. Interspersed throughout her lovely words are photos scanned for us today by one of our grandsons, Joel Fischinger. Here’s Joy:

Joy, Mama, Lisa – on vacation at Mammoth Lakes, an annual excursion for many years.

Solid, dependable, disciplined, hospitable, thoughtful, committed, consistent.

My grandmother embodied these qualities. In an increasingly chaotic and unpredictable world, such characteristics are on the decline. And for an overly anxious and easily overwhelmed child, the unwavering reliability of my grandmother was a source of familiarity and comfort on which I knew I could rely.

The first in her family to graduate from college, at UCLA in the mid-1930s.

Mama was very steady and measured emotionally—quite the contrast to me. She rarely (if ever) raised her voice, and I only remember seeing her cry twice—when speaking of a beloved brother who had died too soon, and when her only daughter and her family were pulling out of the driveway to move across the country. Her level mood created an atmosphere of comfortable predictability for an emotionally volatile child—I knew exactly what to expect when I walked through her door.

So solid.

Enjoying Crater Lake with Jean and Richard, early 1950s

I knew when I went to Mama’s that there would be no surprises in either her temperament or the physical environment. Almost all of the furniture, toys, games, dishes, and appliances (no new-fangled microwaves for Mama!) stayed the same in their Wagner Street house from the time I was born until they moved to Santa Barbara. I played with my dad’s old toys, as did my children after me. I took great comfort in the familiarity of it all.

So dependable.

One of the last pictures of both Mama and Papa with all of their grandchildren, late 1990s

If we ever spent the night at Mama and Papa’s, we knew what we would find when we walked into the kitchen in the morning: the two of them seated at their little blue kitchen table, drinking coffee, reading the Bible and praying for family, friends, and missionaries.

So disciplined.

Same grandkids, several years earlier! On Kauai for M & P’s 50th Anniversary.
We hope to continue that tradition in the summer of 2015 – can you believe it?

We also knew that we would be well-fed when we entered their home. Mama was a wonderful cook, and hosted frequent meals for family and friends. She had a small but delicious repertoire of family favorites: BBQ short ribs, lemon meringue pie, tapioca, homemade applesauce—terrific food served on the same dining room table with the same china, flatware and crystal goblets year after year. To ensure that everyone would fit around the table, the piano bench served as a seat for the two smallest family members at one of the short ends of the table—no kids’ table at Mama Trautwein’s! Every leaf of that table would emerge from the closet so that we could all be together. That dining room set now resides in my own home, where I can only hope to entertain perhaps a quarter of the number of people she hosted so warmly over the years.

So hospitable.

Gathering around that dining room table, about 1979 or 1980.

When birthdays rolled around, we knew there would be a dinner in our honor at Mama and Papa’s house. Mama would let the birthday girl or boy set the menu. We always picked our favorite dishes (which probably weren’t her favorites!): orange jello packed with pieces of fruit, butter brickle cake topped with toffee pieces and hot fudge. When we became teenagers, Mama made each of her grandchildren a treasured cookbook filled with handwritten recipes for the family favorites we all loved, complete with personal notes and anecdotes related to certain dishes—a gift we all cherish and use regularly. My own children have even been fortunate enough to experience the anticipation of an unfailing Mama Trautwein birthday tradition—every year on their birthdays, she has sent them two dollar bills, the same number of bills as their age. Needless to say, they have amassed an astounding number of two dollar bills!

So thoughtful.

Not only did she host birthday dinners at her house, she also came to birthday dinners at our house.
We did birthdays up right in this family.
This picture cracks me up because the Birthday Boy almost got cut out of it.
And we just noticed tonight, he’s wearing doctor gear, of all things! And now he wears the real stuff. Go figure.

Mama established countless family traditions which were joyfully anticipated throughout the year. Every Easter, we knew we would receive a heaping plate of bunny and lamb cookies decorated with pink icing with chocolate chips for eyes. We dyed eggs every year at that little blue kitchen table, and Mama took us on annual Easter egg hunts at Descanso Gardens. Mama decorated a Manzanita tree every Christmas with tiny ornaments, and she gave my sister and me our own manzanita branches when we were in college, with new ornaments for them every year. Each member of our extended family had a stocking that had been lovingly decorated by Mama, unique to our interests. Mama found a lot of joy in holiday traditions.

So consistent.

This woman LOVED Christmas!

And the Easter egg hunts at Descanso continued with the great-grands, too. The four oldest, about 15 years ago.

Mama and Papa also loved to travel. They arranged annual extended family trips to Mammoth Lakes. These vacations gave the cousins a chance to bond, and allowed Mama and Papa to share their love of fishing, jigsaw puzzles, and board games with their offspring. Mama and Papa took exciting vacations without us as well, and invited us over for slideshows when they returned to share their adventures. They always brought back trinkets and souvenirs for us and sent us postcards from around the world. And Mama sent our own family off on road trips with boxes of cookies and wads of dollar bills to purchase souvenirs of our own. She did these things every summer, without fail.

So committed.

Mama, Papa & Jean visiting us in Africa, summer 1967.
I was 4 months pregnant with their first grandchild on this trip.

We will miss Mama, but many of the traditions she established continue in our own families, keeping her memory alive. We have been blessed indeed to have such an amazing woman so actively involved in our lives, setting an example we all aspire to follow.

Solid, dependable, disciplined, hospitable, thoughtful, committed, consistent.

Old-fashioned qualities? Perhaps. But never out of style.

Thanks so much, Joy. Beautifully said and right on target.

Kathryn Trautwein, in the early years at the Samarkand, before dementia.
A truly lovely lady in every way I can think of, a good, good woman.

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Christmas, death, Easter, Encouragement, family, Family Portraits, Family/Travel, God's gifts, Grandparenting, grief, Guest Post, personal journey, Photo Essay

Remembering Her — Kathryn Ruth Byer Trautwein, January 3, 1916 – May 25, 2014

May 30, 2014 By Diana

It was a strange feeling to walk out of that room for the last time; it had been her home for the last five years, with just enough space for a few personal belongings, a private bath, and a small view of the lovely patio outside. Yesterday afternoon, we closed the door of Room 80 at the memory loss center where she lived, where she died.

We picked up the last of the furniture, filling both of our cars to do so; some of it will go to her eldest great-grandson, who will soon be setting up his own place.

It was a graduation weekend, you see. In every sense of that word.

We got the call on Friday night. The Hospice nurse, who had been so faithfully checking on my mother-in-law each week for the last two and a half years said, “Something has shifted. This is the weekend and I just wanted you to know.” An hour later we were there, and it was true. There is a ‘look,’ an other-worldly sense that someone is not long for this plane. And we saw it.

We felt it.

I took out my small prayer book, the gray one that I carry in my car at all times. The one with the beautiful prayers, the particular scriptures, and I made the sign of the cross on her forehead and I read the words I love so much, to this woman that I love so much:

Into your hands, O merciful Savior,
we commend your servant, Kathryn.
Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you,
a sheep of your own fold,
a lamb of your own flock,
a sinner of your own redeeming.
Receive her into the arms of your mercy,
into the blessed rest of everlasting peace,
and into the glorious company of the saints in light.
Amen.

May her soul and the souls of all the departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.
– The Book of Common Prayer

And the next morning, we made the 140 mile drive south to celebrate Ben’s graduation from Chapman University, Dodge School of Film and Media Arts. And we congratulated him on winning Cinematographer of the Year and a lovely grant for his next project. We hesitated about going, but decided that if Mama were able to talk it over, she would say, “Go! Celebrate. Give Ben my love.”

And so we did. We gave him her love.

So much love.

Kathryn with her first born, Richard, 1942

We have lived such a blessed life. We have surely had our share of pain and struggle; we have endured wildfire and near-flooding, burglary and accident, disease and death.

But we have had so much love.

Our children were the only ones in their circle of friends who had all four of their grandparents still living and active while they were students in college. At the time of her death, my MIL had fifteen great-grandchildren, one of them named for her, many of them with stories to tell about her great laugh, her delight in them, her fabulous cooking skills.

We know how rare this is.

And what a great gift.

On a warm summer evening in 1968, soon after that first born,
his wife and infant daughter returned from two years in Africa.

I suppose on the strange and twisted scale of celebrity and fame that captures the minds of so many, Kathryn Trautwein was not a ‘big’ name. She never caused a scandal, she never made a ‘name for herself,’ she never wrote a book. From the outside, there wasn’t much that seemed the least bit big or celebrated about her.

But she was big in the hearts of her family. She was big in the hearts of her many friends. She was big in faith, big in love, big in laughter, big in commitment and joy and service.

She was a remarkable mother-in-law. When it became clear that her son was getting serious about this younger student at UCLA, she called, and made an appointment to meet me. We had tea together in the living room of the small Christian sorority to which we both belonged, and she asked me some good questions. I think I was 18 years old when we met.

I passed muster. Because from then on, I was included in every family gathering – and there were many family gatherings! – and assumed to be part of the tribe. I was never criticized for anything, even though I’m sure she must have had a lot of questions about decisions I made and the way I raised my kids.

They lived 5 minutes from us, she in the house she shared with her husband for 62 years, we in three different homes, the first of which she found for us. The only time I can ever remember her saying ‘no’ to me about anything, was to a house I was considering that had a pool in the backyard with no fence around it. She never learned to swim and hated getting wet, and she could not imagine her grandbabies surviving such danger!

I’m glad she said ‘no.’ I trusted her judgment and God had a much better house in mind for us, one where we raised our three for thirteen good years. A house she loved and enjoyed, too.

Mama & Papa with our son, 1972, in the house that she found for us.
It was his surprise arrival, bringing our brood to three, that pushed us into house-hunting again.

If I needed help with the kids, she was there. If I needed advice about cooking (NEVER about sewing!), she was there. If I needed advice about gardening, she was there. And she was there for a long list of other people, too. She was intelligent, well-read, loved crossword puzzles, made the world’s best short ribs and a magnificent 3-layer cake.

She was an active volunteer at their church and at Christian Women’s Club, where she taught and mentored younger women, and she helped with the Women’s Auxiliary of Fuller Seminary, where I later became a student. That was probably the decision of mine that caused her the most inner anguish. She did not come from a tradition of women in ministry and she wasn’t quite sure about it. But she never doubted God’s call on my life and after my installation at Montecito Covenant, she said the most interesting thing to me: “Now, you belong to the people here.”

At our daughter’s wedding reception in 2011, one of her last outings anywhere, with Dick’s sister Jean,
on the patio of Montecito Covenant Church. Such a happy day, but she struggled to be there.

And she was right. For fourteen years, I belonged to those people, as one of their pastors and as a kind of through-line during a lot of challenging transitions.

But I also, and always, belonged to my family. And she was such a central part of my family, such a central part of me. I will be forever grateful for her love and encouragement. And I will miss her until the day we meet on the other side.

On Mother’s Day this year. She died two weeks later.

Driving into the driveway at 11:00 on Saturday night, after the graduation festivities and the long drive, we called to check. “She’s still here.” “Good,” we said, “we’ll be there tomorrow.”

And so we kept vigil all day Sunday. What a privilege to sit in such holy space, to wait while the angels gather, to greet family as they come to say good-bye, to say ‘thank you, thank you’ to the amazing aides who loved her well during her time in this place.

Our nephew came and brought his three young children. Our daughters made the long drive and brought their husbands. Our son had been there the day before. All of her ‘local’ grandchildren came by to say farewell. At 5:00, we checked out for the evening, gathering good Mexican take-out food, and eating it on our patio with our girls and their men. Just as we finished, the phone rang.

“I went into her room to check on her . . . and she was gone.”

Just like Mama, to leave quietly, no fuss.

We returned to that space, met my friend Sherry, who is the chaplain at The Samarkand Retirement Community, said a few more prayers, picked out some clothes to send with her body, talked with the hospice nurse who made everything official.

THIS is who she was – a beautiful, caring, faithful woman of God,
who loved her family and lived well.

Kathryn Trautwein was a true gift to this world. A brave woman, a strong one and a good one. She loved us well. We are grateful for her long life, and we are grateful for her release from it. I find myself saying ‘thank you, thank you,’ just under my breath; drifting off to sleep at night, waking in the morning, these are the words in my heart and on my lips.

She will be buried on Monday, in a crypt in Ontario CA that she will share with her husband of 64 years. Jean, Dick and I will make the long drive and I know our rich memories will carry us all the way there.

Like her father before her, she was an occasional poet. These are two of my favorites, ones we will include with her memorial folder at a service of celebration in the Chapel at The Samarkand Retirement Community in Santa Barbara on Sunday afternoon, June 8th, at 2:00 p.m.

Untitled

How like God to have His
lamb be born in a stable.
Be announced to and first
worshiped by shepherds.
Be dumb before His
accusers then be
sacrificed for me and
be risen as my Good Shepherd.
Now I the obedient sheep do
follow him!
– Kathryn R.B. Trautwein

Potter’s Ware

I am God’s
signed, named, original
not cloned with many likenesses,
one of a kind,
made in His image,
treasured by Him,
valuable in His sight.
A simple earthen vessel but
Indwelt by eternity.
— Kathryn R.B. Trautwein

Filed Under: Beauty, death, Encouragement, family, family tree, God's gifts, Home, personal journey, prayer

Chartreuse Cape in My Closet — SheLoves

May 24, 2014 By Diana

It’s always a joy to work with the grand people over at SheLovesMagazine. This is a small story about an old friend, who taught me a thing or two about living with flourish . . .

My online dictionary gives two distinct definitions for the word ‘flourish.’ One has to do with thriving in a particular environment; the other has to do with colorful, sometimes startling, ‘ta-da’ gestures.

My granddaughter is flourishing in the small Catholic school she attends. OR
My friend Nancy always adds a feather boa when she wants to say something with a flourish.

At first glance, the verb and the noun seem to have little to do with one another. To flourish is to bloom, turn toward the sun, become more of who we’re meant to be. A flourish is a more momentary thing, maybe even a flashy thing – a gesture, a brightly colored piece of clothing, a pose.

When I did a little looking, however, I discovered that they are actually very closely related. The verb form is older (about 800 years old!) and came into English from an old French word meaning to blossom; the noun came later and used to mean a blossom.

So, I wonder . . . what does it mean to blossom? What does it mean to add a blossom to what we do, what we say, how we live?

My friend Kathy helped me understand both meanings of this word.

I first met her almost twenty years ago, soon after my husband and I moved to Santa Barbara. She was in her early 80s then, full of life, and living that life out loud and in full Technicolor. Tall, statuesque, with brilliant blue eyes, she moved with a dancer’s grace and spoke with verve and good humor.

She’d known my husband before I met her and when she discovered that I was a pastor, she wasted no time in asking if I ever preached. “About 8-10 times a year,” I told her. And the very next week, she called the church office, asking for a preaching schedule and for immediate notification when my name came up in the rotation.

And every time I preached, from that day until a few months before she died, she came to hear me. She’d leave her expensive home at the golf course, driving her beat-up, 20-year old Ford station wagon into the church parking lot. I could always see her coming into the back of the gymnasium where we worshipped in those days, and I’d watch as she would gently genuflect and cross herself before the large wooden cross that hung at center court . . .

Come on over to SheLoves to read the rest of this story . . .

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Church, Creativity, Encouragement, Friendship, God's gifts, memoir, personal journey, SheLoves

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 the Edge – A Deeper Story

May 15, 2014 By Diana

I’m writing for A Deeper Story today, talking about sharp edges. . .

The sharp pieces are poking me rather a lot these days. I’m feeling my own edges in just about every way I can think of during this spring of 2014. It seems to be a season of pricking, marked by painful reminders of age and infirmity, all of it triggering deeply embedded insecurities and anxieties.

Can’t say I like it very much, this edginess. I’ve never been one to be on the cutting edge of anything, always a little bit behind the zeitgeist. And generally speaking, most of the time, I’m not an ‘edgy’ sorta character. Yeah, the sarcasm can flare on occasion. And the temper. But all in all, I try to let the more mellow parts of my personality rise to the top.

But right now? Not so much. I’m too quick to take offense, too unwilling to extend the benefit of the doubt in any direction, most especially toward myself. And I’m feeling weary, right down to my bones.

Do you know these deep feelings? Do you wind around these curves in the road, try to match your steps to this unwelcome rhythm of uncertainty and guess work, of fear and resistance?

I’m guessing that most of us find ourselves wandering down this spiky kind of path at some point. And if we live long enough, we’ll walk it several times, not one of them welcome.

Well, I have certainly lived long enough, so this unstable territory is depressingly familiar. I’ve waited for a loved one to die before, and hated it every time. I’ve had health issues at different points along the way, none of them enjoyable. And I’ve had my feelings hurt and walked through existential doubt and suffered broken appliances and lost keys and I know the truth of, “It never rains but it pours” and “Bad things come in threes,” and any other superstitious truism you care to mention. . .

Please come on over to the Culture Channel at A Deeper Story today to read the rest of this post . . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Story, Confession, Encouragement, grief, Hard Things, hope, Lament, memoir, personal journey, prayer, Suffering, Waiting

The Turning Point

May 8, 2014 By Diana

It was Wednesday yesterday.
Mom day.

We made the walk from her room
across the campus to the new cafe.
As always, we moved slowly.
Very slowly.

The day was warm and breezy,
sun shining, sky blue.
And the view is delightful.

Well, this view is delightful.
Mountain profile, green trees, red tile roofs.

This one is a bit more sobering.
It is a retirement community, after all.
And there were several old children,
visiting older parents this day.

My mom has had a rough month.
A bad, bad cold,
followed by a nasty case of shingles,
all of that taking its toll on her,
physically and mentally.

She is not eating much these days —
barely made it through half a hot dog,
one of her favorite lunches.

And the Diet Coke cup seemed to
freak her out this week.
She couldn’t understand why her
hands were wet whenever she
held her sweating cup.

But she smiled sweetly for the camera,
loving my company,
enjoying the day.

Making conversation is harder and harder to do.
She starts,
and I try to fill in the blanks,
but I can no longer guess
where she is heading.
There were a few moments
of remembering her childhood,
and a few wistful wishes
for more traveling.

But most of it was frustrating
for both of us.

We sat there for a good thirty minutes
after she had given up on eating anything,
just breathing together,
enjoying the warm sun
and the blue sky.

This last picture shows a weakness of my new camera.
It sometimes doesn’t know quite where to focus.
The woman in the background is crystal clear.
My mama?
Fuzzy, indefinite.

A perfect representation
of who and where she is right now.

Walking back to her room, I got a little ahead of her.
This is easy to do, as my stride is long
and even with an injured foot,
I walk a great deal faster than she.

So she said this:

“You may be older than I am, but you sure do move quicker.”

I was stunned for a minute, but came back quickly:

“I’m not older than you, Mom. How can I be?
I’m your daughter.”

“YOU ARE?
I didn’t know that!
Are you sure?
You didn’t live in our house, did you?”

“Yes, Mom. I lived in your house for twenty years.
And then I got married.”

Tears began to brim, but I cut them off.
She was so deeply confused,
and she did not need my grief to intrude
on her own.

My name she still knows.
My closeness to her she also knows.
Our blood relationship?

She no longer has a clue.

And I am bereft.

Filed Under: Aging, family, grief, Hard Things, memoir, personal journey, The Journey with Mom

Too Much? — A Deeper Story

April 30, 2014 By Diana

I am privileged to write each month at A Deeper Story. This month’s story comes from a seminary classroom experience a very long time ago. But somehow the issue lingers. See what you think:

As I remember, it was somewhere between two and four in the afternoon, on a Monday. A lovely spring day, temperate California weather, a low simmer of chatter and anticipation in our small seminary classroom.

There were about 20 of us taking a course on Conflict Resolution, from a moderately well-known professor who had written on the topic and had always seemed to me to be kind and soft-spoken. Maybe that’s why his response startled me so.

We were divided into pairs and given a scenario to act out, to role-play. My partner was a nice young man, whom I did not know, and we were assigned the following:

You are a married couple shopping for furniture for your home. When you arrive at the store, the wife discovers that the husband has already purchased furniture without telling her about it. How does the discussion unfold between you?

There was no advance notice, no conversation between us ahead of time. “Just plunge in,” the teacher said. “Act it out.”

So I did.

I stated my disappointment clearly, firmly, with a moderately low level of emotion, at least to my ears. And to the ears of every other woman in the class, I later discovered.

As soon as I finished speaking, this well-respected professor very carefully and deliberately crossed his legs and placed his hands in his lap, as if to protect himself, and said, “Wow, Diana. Way to challenge his manhood!”

To say I was stunned would be a severe understatement. I am a large person, this I know. I am a strong person. This I also know. I am also moderately articulate and quick on my feet. I expressed my disappointment with the ‘husband’ clearly, but not harshly.

Yet to this man, whose specialty was conflict, I was overbearing, aggressive, out for the kill — just plain too much. I was embarrassed to the point of humiliation. In addition, I was really, really confused.

If a woman states her case plainly, is she aggressive? Is she emasculating? Is she crossing some kind of invisible line in the sand? If the roles had been reversed, if the ‘husband’ had spoken similarly to the ‘wife,’ would that have elicited the same response?

Please join me over at ADS to continue this conversation. . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Story, authority, Hard Things, personal journey, Storytelling

Doubters Welcome Here

April 27, 2014 By Diana

They call this week “Low Sunday.” It’s the Sunday after the biggest feast in the Christian year, and every associate pastor in the world knows about it. This is a Sunday when associates are often asked to take the pulpit, providing an opportunity for the lead pastor to take a breather after the heavy push of Lent and Easter. And our fine associate stepped right up today.*

On the Orthodox calendar, this Sunday — which comes 8 days after Easter — is also known as the Sunday of St. Thomas, and the usual passage in their lectionary is the very one we used today. We have devised our own lectionary for this past school year, working through the gospel of John, and we are almost to the end. Serendipitously, Pastor Jon worked through these six verses from the end of chapter 20 in this morning’s meditation.

Here are John’s words, in The Message:

But Thomas, sometimes called the Twin, one of the Twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.

The other disciples told him, “We saw the Master.” But he said, “Unless I see the nail holes in his hands, put my finger in the nail holes, and stick my hand in his side, I won’t believe it.”

Eight days later, his disciples were again in the room. This time Thomas was with them. Jesus came through the locked doors, stood among them, and said, “Peace to you.”

Then he focused his attention on Thomas. “Take your finger and examine my hands. Take your hand and stick it in my side. Don’t be unbelieving. Believe.”

Thomas said, “My Master! My God!”

Jesus said, “So, you believe because you’ve seen with your own eyes. Even better blessings are in store for those who believe without seeing.”

Anyone who’s ever been to church knows this passage, right? That infamous stretch of scripture which has given rise to the descriptor, ‘doubting Thomas?’ How about ‘doubting Diana?’ Or ‘doubting _______ (fill in your own name?’ Because we all struggle with doubt, don’t we?

There are days when I not only don’t know what to believe, but I don’t know IF I believe much of anything at all. And almost everyone I’ve ever walked with on this following-after-Jesus-journey will admit to similar periods of wrestling, of questioning.

Madeleine L’Engle used to call it viral atheism, like a bout of illness.

Barbara Brown Taylor’s most recent book, ‘Learning to Walk in the Dark,’ speaks of her wrestling and wondering, of her deep desire to re-define the whole idea of darkness. She asserts that the darkness fairly shimmers with the presence of God Almighty, reminding me that God inhabited the darkness in the opening words of Genesis 1, long before any of the glorious universe we live in was even created.

Yes, there are good things to be discovered in the dark. And maybe, just maybe, doubt is the doorway to some of those good things.

Today, Pastor Jon also referenced Mother Theresa’s writings, writings culled from her personal journals, writings in which she, too, talked about doubt and an often overwhelming sense of God’s absence.

Interesting, isn’t it? My own devotional reading, conversations I’ve had with a wide variety of people — both IRL and online, and the sermon this morning were all connected, touching on the same basic topic, and providing a week of deep personal encouragement for me.

Why? Because I’m beginning to think that I may be in very good company indeed when I admit to doubt. And now, I find myself wondering what there is to be learned from this particular season of walking in the dark.

Thomas is a fine teacher, that’s for sure. He’s a toucher, is Thomas. A believer in the flesh, the in-your-face presence of another to confirm what his mind struggles to hang onto. He wants to put those hands on the scars of his Savior. He needs to see with his eyes, and touch with his fingers.

The hard part is that Thomas had to wait a while for his Resurrection experience, didn’t he? His friends celebrated right away — they heard and they saw and they touched. But Thomas was absent on that first remarkable day, for some reason, missing in action.

And hearsay was not going to cut it for this man. No way, no how.

When they gathered again, on that eighth day, Thomas made sure that he was there. And when Jesus appeared — in that mysterious, other-worldly way of his — he turned those laser-like eyes directly in Thomas’s direction.

Read that paragraph in the gospel reading one more time.

Do you hear any word of critique in Jesus’s invitation to Thomas? I don’t. He looks right at him and invites him to come and touch, to come and see for himself.

Caravaggio’s depiction of this scene was on our screens this morning. Look at this painting. Do you see how dramatic this encounter must have been? Look at how the hand of Jesus grips the wrist of Thomas so firmly, directing his fingers straight into that scarred chest.

No wonder Thomas cries out, “My Lord and my God!” Here is the proof he longed for, the touch he needed.

And then Jesus says something rather amazing. Amazing because I believe that Jesus was speaking those next words directly to me. And to you. And to any disciple who did not have the gift and the privilege of touching the resurrected body of the Lord:

“Blessings are in store for those who believe without seeing.”

I cannot touch that wound in the side of Jesus, nor the nail marks in his wrists. But there are other wounds in this body of his, aren’t there?

So, I wonder where are the scars that need touching today? Because I believe that invitation given to Thomas is wide open for me, right here, right now. “Diana — are you wondering? Are you struggling? Then, come. Touch my side. Touch my hands.”

Here is where I am finding the wounds of the Savior these days:

This is the invitation for me right now. She is old. She is frail. She is blind and deaf and increasingly dumb, as words are harder and harder to find. So the touching of the wounds in this place is a primary point of ministry and of obedience these days; not one I chose, but one that is right in front of me, nonetheless.

She loves the ocean and she loves to take drives and she enjoys eating pizza once in a while. So today, in the middle of this current bout with doubt, with all this wondering and wrestling, I find myself looking for the wounds and trying my best to tend them a little.

We wrestle the walker into and out of the car and we sit across from one another at California Pizza Kitchen. And slowly, with lots of waiting in between, I hear pieces of her heart. I hear the words of old gospel songs. And I hear the phrases that she latches onto with all her might, phrases to keep her going during this terrible time of confusion and loss:

“The Lord’s been good.”

“We’ll just keep praying and believing.”

“Life is like a mountain railway . . . blessed Savior there to guide us.”

And so I am refreshed.

I am reminded that Jesus welcomed Thomas, doubts and all.

And Jesus welcomes me, too.

You can read the full text of Pastor Jon Lemmond’s excellent sermon here.

Joining with Michelle, Jen, Jennifer & Laura this week:

Filed Under: Aging, biblical reflection, Church, church year, Confession, Doubt, Encouragement, Hard Things, personal journey, Santa Barbara, Spiritual Formation, Suffering, Sunday Reflections, The Church, The Journey with Mom, The Sea, worship

Remembering When

April 24, 2014 By Diana

Both Laura Brown and Jessica Turner have invited bloggers to post old pictures and tell stories about them in a meme called “Throwback Thursday.” Laura’s is specifically tied to her lovely book, “Everything That Makes You Mom,” and the request from her was to share an old picture taken with my mom. I don’t have many of those, at least not in digital form, so these three will have to do.

My mother, in her heyday, was truly a larger-than-life person.

That hat, for instance.

And the gigantic bow atop my head.
She started those bows when I could barely hold my head up,
ostensibly to announce to the world that this was a female child.
Apparently my baldness led many to believe I was a boy,
and my mom was having none of that!

I was a much-wanted child, long-awaited, and adored by my dad.
My relationship with my mom was more complicated,
very different from the easy, quiet companionship I enjoyed with my father.
Part of that is because my mother was a flaming extrovert —
easily the most socially gifted person I’ve ever known.
My father was quiet, reserved, careful.
Mom was glamorous, dramatic,
a loud laugher and a loud crier.
She was also an extraordinarily creative homemaker and hostess,
usually operating on the slimmest of budgets.
She set beautiful tables, told wonderful stories,
often acting out each part,
and she brought light and laughter wherever people gathered.

She was also deeply insecure, believing herself to be
intellectually inferior to my dad and to most of her friends.
She had a mother-in-law who was sharp-tongued and
judgmental and a father who belittled and verbally abused her.

So when I was growing up, she depended on me to be
an emotional sounding board and a hands-on helper
with all things domestic.
For most of my growing-up years,
she was my very best friend.
I idolized her and thought she was the smartest
and most beautiful woman I knew.
and I tried to please her in every way I could.

My mother loved me and, most of the time,
she also liked me.
She struggled to understand me, however.
In some ways we are similar, sharing
a lot of the same interests and laughing
at the same jokes.
But in other ways, we are most definitely not alike,
and during those early years,
I intuited that it was not okay to step outside the box she drew,
the box of acceptable behavior and language,
of dreams and goals.

She worked hard at being a mom.
Until the last two years of high school, she made almost all my dresses.
She coached me in public speaking when I was ten,
helping me to be at ease in front of hundreds of people —
and to enjoy doing it, too.
Although she never finished college,
she read widely and well,
and she had a great facility with language.
I remember being given a long list of my mom’s favorite authors
when I was in elementary school,
then walking through the traveling library-van to find them.
I read voraciously, from about grade two right up until today.
Because of her encouragement, I read well above my
grade level and in the process, learned a whole lot
of great vocabulary words. How?
Whenever I came to a word I didn’t know,
I’d spell it out and she would pronounce it and
tell me what it meant.

I thought she was the smartest woman I knew.
And the most beautiful.
And, of course, she is the most genuine extrovert I know,
always smiling that 100-watt smile,
reaching out with a hand to touch an arm
or a shoulder, offering kind words
and a gentle laugh.

Even in the midst of her dementia,
she does these lovely things,
saying ‘thank you so much,’
and ‘I’m so glad to meet you,’
and, ‘Have you met my daughter?’

Yes, Mom. I’ve met them all. Many times.
But I’m happy to meet them again. And again.

She is still one of the most beautiful women I know.
And she is still that flaming extrovert,
gifted with social skills that she uses with grace and aplomb.
The vocabulary is shrinking by the day,
as she loses more and more of her ability to communicate.

I miss her.
I miss our good conversations, our shared reading projects,
our party planning and execution.

And I am so deeply grateful for her and to her:
for being such a terrific mother in so many ways;
for modeling marital commitment through thick and thin;
for being a lifelong learner, genuinely fascinated
by this world and all its wonders;
for her deep, seeking heart,
hungry for God and goodness.
She taught me so much.

And she still does.

Joining this with Jessica at The Creative Mom’s Thursday link-up.
AND — Mother’s Day is right around the corner and Laura Lynn Brown’s beautiful, small book is a perfect gift, especially if you fill it with some good, shared stories. You can order it here.

Filed Under: Beauty, Blogging, family, God's gifts, personal journey, The Journey with Mom