personal journey

Psssst. . . A Sneak Peek at Something Grand!

September 17, 2012 By Diana

Have you ever had a dream?

A crazy, wild, hold-your-breath,

jump-off-a-cliff,

and-hope-and-pray-for-the-best

kind of dream?

One that you’re pretty sure came from God,

but sorta scares you to death?

My friend Deidra Riggs had exactly that

kind of dream . . .

and she is doing something about it.

Beginning October 1st,

Early-Bird registration will open

for a wonderfully-wild-and-wooly retreat designed

to encourage women of faith in the blogging world.

It will be held April 19-21, 2013 just outside of Omaha, Nebraska

This picture header from the new retreat website

doesn’t really fit on my blog page,

but I think it will give you an idea of some of the folks

who are going to be there.

And they’re going to be there in order

to encourage all who come to dream big dreams.

If you’d like to take a peek at the website (currently under construction), just click on this sentence and head on over to look around!

As the website nears completion, here are some important details to keep in mind as you think and pray about attending. Details like – dates, cost, and a peek at the retreat center. Clicking on that sentence up there will let you read about the speakers/leaders and the Big Dream ideas that will be the thematic thread of our time together. I am excited! And I’m honored to be there as a Pastor-in-Residence. Any opportunity to become Real Life Community is a gift. And this one is a doozy.

Early bird registration will begin October 1 and run through October 6.
The retreat will take place April 19-21, 2013.
Early bird tickets will be $249 and will include a retreat pass, two nights lodging, and five meals.
Regular price tickets (purchased after October 6) will be $299.
A day pass will also be available for those who may live nearby and choose not to stay at the retreat center. The cost for a day pass is $99 (early bird) and $139 (regular price) and will include lunch and dinner on Saturday.
Ashland, NE is a 30-minute drive from the Omaha airport. We will provide a shuttle from the airport to the retreat center.
The retreat will be held at the Carol Joy Holling Conference and Retreat Center. Here’s a link: http://www.cjhcenter.org/the-sjogren-center
Optional “Be Brave” activities will include the ropes course and zip line, under the supervision and direction of Retreat Center staff members. Participants can add this activity as one of their breakout sessions for an additional $10.
The event is designed to be casual, cozy, and small — we’re planning for about 60 overnight participants, with a possibility of up to 100 total (including those who choose a day pass)

Filed Under: Blogging, God's gifts, personal journey, Spiritual Formation, Writing, Writing Retreats

5 Minute Friday – Focus

September 14, 2012 By Diana

Five minutes. That’s the rule. Five minutes for free-writing, whatever comes into your head, whatever the prompt elicits. And it’s crazy fun. Come on over to the Gypsy Mama’s website – though she goes by Lisa-Jo Baker nowadays – and see for yourselves:

Somedays, I think I look at life like this – just a little bit cock-eyed and slightly out of focus.

Today’s prompt: FOCUS

GO:

For me, photography has become a kind of sacramental act. I have a camera with me at all times and frequently annoy my family by poking it in their faces at the most inopportune moments.

Mostly, however, I use my camera to notice things.

To pay attention.

To look more closely,

see the details,

the angle of the light,

the wonder of a baby’s laugh,

the cobweb, backlit by morning sunshine,

the power of a breaking wave.

The camera becomes an extension of my eyes, allowing me to slow down a bit – forcing me to slow down a bit, encouraging me to savor, sift, concentrate, focus.

Looking through the lens requires me to double check and see if things are lining up straight or are slightly askew. Focusing that lens means taking the time to choose where to look first.

To see this family playing in the water, I had to disarm the auto-focus on the camera because
it wanted to see the bushes clearly. I did not. I get to choose what I see most clearly.

There are lessons here, lessons beyond the extended ocular sensitivity that my camera provides. Because focus is important in all of life . . . choosing where I’m going to look first.

Will I look at the Truth or the lie?

Will I look at the Good or the not-so-good?

Will I look at and for the spark of the Spirit in each person I encounter during the day, or will I forget, and allow myself to be distracted, to intentionally turn away?

Today, I choose to look,

to look with intention, commitment, focus.

Maybe tomorrow, too?

STOP

About one minute over – pictures, captions and formatting added later.

Filed Under: 5 Minute Friday, personal journey, photography

An African Journey: Post Five – The Very Best Part

September 13, 2012 By Diana

There we were, minding our own business,

getting to know this new country,

these new friends,

this new work . . .

and then the world shifted.

Well, maybe not the entire world,

just our tiny corner of it.

And it took a while to sink in, too.

On the 4th of June, 1967,

I wrote to my mom and dad and said this:

“I have been feeling lousy the last 2-3 weeks.

Attacks of nausea at odd times, extreme sleepiness

and a late period. I am going to see the doctor next week

to find out what the trouble is. Will let you know the results.”

What can I say?

I was young and . . . naive?

Let’s just say it . . .

I was plain old stupid about the process of reproduction.

Yes, thank you very much, I did know how it happened.

I just didn’t have a clue what happened when it happened.

So . . . stupid?

Yeah, that about covers it.

My mother just laughed hysterically when she read that letter,

and her diagnosis arrived about the same time the doctor’s did:

you are two months pregnant.

About four months along, sipping a Coke on the Garden Route in South Africa.

My husband’s parents and younger sister came to visit us and took us on a wonderful three week trip to game parks and other beautiful places south of our home. I will write another journal entry about our travels to other parts of Africa while we lived in Zambia.

About 6 months along in these two faded black & white photos.

So. We were pregnant.

DEEP breath.

And so, the thinking and the wondering and the planning

and the gathering began.

My doctor was an American,

a member of the denomination with which we served,

and his work and his hospital were 40 miles away,

over a very, VERY bumpy dirt road, out in the bush.

I saw him three times during my pregnancy.

My everything- you-wanted-to-know-about pregnancy reading was limited,

to say the least.

A friend who was a nurse had an old ob-gyn textbook,

filled with pictures and descriptions of

all that can go wrong in pregnancy and delivery.

Lovely.

Fortunately, there were women living in our

neighborhood who had borne babies before.

In fact, over the next four months,

four other women announced that they, too, were pregnant.

It was an epidemic!

Those of us who were newbies learned from the old hands,

and somehow, we muddled through.

Our baby was due on January 9, 1968,

and I worked as a teacher through the end of the term in

mid-December, grateful for papers to grade,

students to love and exams to prepare.

We found treasures to be repaired and painted,

I created curtains out of fabric bought in our town,

friends sent me maternity clothes and baby clothes

from home, carefully folded into 9×12 envelopes.

Over the next few months,

the reality began to sink in:

we were going to be parents.

Yikes.

January 9th came and went.

January 19th came and went.

My 23rd birthday on January 23rd came and went.

I lay on the bed, weeping, convinced that I would have this oversized basketball in my body for the rest of my life.

At about 6:30 in the morning on Sunday, January 28th,

I woke up with a strong back ache.

I went into our bathroom/laundry room and

sat on the edge of the tub, folding clean towels.

I remember being overwhelmed with

the realization that my life was going to change

forever

by the end of that day.

I was, however, still stupid.

I stood in the middle of the lawn at about 9:30 a.m.,

watching my stomach ripple under my dress,

begging my cross-the-street neighbor

(who was pregnant with #4)

to tell me if this could possibly be labor.

She just looked at me and said,

“Diana, get yourself into the car and drive to Macha.”

So that is exactly what we did.

If you ever find yourself wondering how you might speed things along in early labor, I have a suggestion for you.

Find yourself a very bumpy dirt road and drive on it for about an hour.

I guarantee that things will pick up nicely.

We arrived at the hospital about 10:30 in the morning, went to a very nice room with a bath and my husband proceeded to talk to me about our travel plans for the summer,

when our term of service would be ending.

I think I may have thrown the notebook in his face,

but I can’t be certain.

It’s all a bit of a blur.

At about 11:45, they wheeled me into the delivery room.

Only, it wasn’t really a delivery delivery room,

it was a surgical suite.

The doctor was a thoracic surgeon and he did a whole lot of chest surgery out there in the bush.

They didn’t have a delivery table as such,

just a surgical table,

and that sucker was hard.

His favorite nurse, who happened to be his wife,

gave me a small mask to put over my face with each

pain, a gas called Trilene.

I had no other medication.

At 12:12, just after noon on a glorious sunny summer day,

Lisa Ruth Trautwein entered the world,

a thick head of dark hair and a great set of lungs

announcing her presence.

And I distinctly remember sitting up on the table and

shouting, “This is fabulous! I want ten of these!”

As I said, stupid.

Sigh.

Winnie Worman, the doctor’s wife and an excellent nurse, holding our 1 day old daughter.

I stayed at the Mission until Thursday, eating in their home. Dick spent the first night with us both and then returned to school on Monday morning to greet his students.

The doctor himself (Robert Worman) with our beautiful girl.

With Winnie and Lisa, outside my room. The government asked them to add 5 private rooms and I got to be in one of them. The entire birthing experience cost us about eight dollars.

We had a rocky first night.

Because my husband was with me, the nursing staff left the three of us alone that night. I very quickly learned how much I did not know about mothering,

and, once again, how much I did not know about being a woman who carries babies and gives birth.

My baby cried non-stop. Nothing would soothe her.

And I was more than a little bit weak and wobbly from very normal blood loss that scared and surprised me.

Because, as I’ve said . . . I was terribly uninformed . . .

Yup . . . stupid.

By 6:00 the next morning,

I greeted the nurse on duty like a super-hero of some sort. She took one look at our girl and said,

“Oh, this one loves to suck. I can see it. Try this pacifier.”

Glory be! It worked. From there on, it got easier.

In the picture above, Lisa is about 22 hours old.

I’d been up, showered, shampooed, curlered and combed out, (there were no portable hair dryers in the entire country of Zambia!) and in this picture, I am figuring out how to bathe an 8 1/2 pound human person.

Fortunately, she loved it. . . and so did I.

We brought her home and introduced her to our room and to the space that would eventually be her room.

Dick and I were both ecstatic, overwhelmed with gratitude,

sometimes anxious, but basically simply delighted

to be living with this entrancing creature.

She was, of course, the most precocious child in the history of humankind, smiling at 10 days, laughing big at two months, growing blond hair with dark tips.

Our African students adored her. I think she was the only newborn baby they had ever seen who had longish, straight hair,

and they loved to touch her, to hold her, to stroke her head.

A Zambian friend loaned me her baby carrier and I used it as a pattern to make this one for Lisa and me.

There were no Ergo carriers in the 60’s.

In fact, American and European parents

knew nothing about carrying babies on their bodies.

I learned about it from my African friends

and I used this sling all the time.

From the time of Lisa’s birth until the time we left five and a half months later, I was called Bina Lisa by my African colleagues, most of whose first names I never really knew, as they were always called Bina —- (insert the name of their first-born child). I have been unable to find even one picture of Lisa with our African principal and his wife or with the students who earned pocket money by helping me with my ironing twice a week. (Remember ironing??) They are among a small set of pictures that we haven’t been able to locate as we’ve been scanning old memories into our computer. But I have strong and happy memories of their warm acceptance of our baby and of the gigantic leap of respect our becoming parents engendered in the attitude of our students toward us.

This was Lisa’s favorite position, hanging upside down, sucking vigorously on that pacifier.

All five new babies near the end of our time in Zambia.

Lisa was the only girl.

Our next door neighbors, Rosemary and Harry King, holding Lisa at a staff gathering. Harry took the black and white photos you see in this and other of these African Journey posts.

The Kings were from Virginia. Millie and Dave Dyck, our neighbors on the other side – and the parents of Michael, born 2 weeks after Lisa and pictured above and below, were from Canada. He went on to become the head of the Mission Board of the Mennonite Brethren Church in that country.

Michael must have been teasing Lisa to make her pout like that.

Mom and babe on Easter Sunday, 1968. Is she not the cutest thing ever??

(Until her sister and brother were born, of course. To say nothing of all the grandkids…)

We did take a trip on the way home.

But by the time we actually left in June, that trip

had been shortened considerably.

We spent one week in Kenya, visiting some friends who were teaching there, then about 10 days in Switzerland (pictured above) and Germany, visiting my cousin and some friends from UCLA.

We were so smitten with our girl that we wanted to get her back to the arms of our loving families just as quickly as we could. And she was a great traveler, too . . . until our very last flight. From Copenhagen to Seattle, she cried almost the entire way, then settled down as we made the last leg into LAX.

That little one was just plain done with airplanes.

We were greeted at the airport by grandparents, a great grandmother and a small horde of aunts, uncles and a smattering of cousins.

It was a deliriously happy time and

I think we brought home the very best souvenir imaginable, don’t you?

Becoming a mother changed me in ways that are profound,

in ways that I cannot articulate.

Carrying, birthing, nursing and tending three small persons is soul work,

down deep living-life work, sometimes terrifying, always gratifying heart-work.

Meeting Lisa was my introduction to that work

and that meeting took place a long way

from the only home I had known to that point.

There is a very real sense, however, that birthing her in that wonderful place cemented in my spirit,

my heart,

even in my body,

this truth:

home is not a geographical place

so much as it is an emotional space,

a spiritual point of connection and commitment.

All of her life, Lisa has been able to say,

“I was born in Africa.”

And we have been able to say,

“Africa was our home.”

And those two things go together.

I will happily join this long story with Jennifer and Duane:

And one week later, this will be my first entry in the Parent’Hood synchro blog, joining through Joy Bennett’s blog:

Filed Under: An African Journal, An African Journey, community, family, God's gifts, Home, Marriage, memoir, ministry, personal journey, Photo Essay, Travel, women, Wonderings in the World

Dear Me. . . a letter to my teen-aged self

September 13, 2012 By Diana

Emily Freeman is one of my favorite writers out here in blogland. And she’s just released her 2nd book, this one aimed at teen-aged girls. It’s called “Graceful.” So as part of that celebration, she has invited others to write a letter to their teen-aged selves. Here’s her button – and you can get any one of 17 versions of this over at her site.

We’re all linking up on Friday at Emily’s blog, Chatting at the Sky.

Hello sweet girl,

Somewhere between this fresh-faced 11-year old, on the cusp of the dreaded junior high school experience, the one with the barrettes in her hair and the sweet smile on her face . . .

. . . and this curly-haired (how on earth did that happen??), Peter-Pan-collared, 16-year-0ld high school student who is wearing just a little too much lipstick, I think maybe we lost a few things.

And here, I am, on the other end of this long life of ours, trying to help us find them again.

So to you, my just-barely-pre-adolescent-self, the one in the barrettes, I want to say this: your family moved that year, the year right before Junior High school, you moved to a brand new community, a brand new school. You left behind the only school you’d ever known, the one on Strathern Street in North Hollywood. The one where you had two outstanding teachers who were men. And the one in 5th grade? Mr. Naismith? Yeah, that one. He told you and your mother, when you were both standing there together at the school open house, he said that you were a writer. A really imaginative, gifted writer.

And you didn’t believe him.

You felt shyly proud, but you really couldn’t quite grab hold of it. So hear me, please: believe him. And write like crazy, will you? Because if you don’t, that piece of you will be lost for a long, long time – the imaginative piece. And that, my dear, was one of the best parts of you before that move, before adolescence hit like a hurricane and made you disdainful of all things fanciful.

And you up there, the one with the artificially curly hair? The one in the collar? I see that face that can’t quite look into the camera, and I know how much you hate so many parts of yourself. Really, truly hate them. And that is because you’ve seen how your mother frets over you. And all her worries, her fears, her misguided thoughts, her anxiety-based worldview – that’s all becoming part of you. And it’s going to take you years and years to try and separate yourself from all those pieces of self-hatred.

What you don’t know is this: all that angst you soaked in through your skin, the stuff your mom fairly breathed into you? It was really, truly about her and not about you. It was her own deep-seated insecurities that made her hover and wring her hands and give you home permanents that never worked right, and tell you not to walk like a duck, and drag you from doctor to doctor trying to find a remedy for your congenitally difficult skin, and then when you were sixteen and absolutely perfect (yes, you were — look at the pictures!) she took you to a ‘diet doctor’ and put you on pills, for heaven’s sake.

She never meant it to happen, but it did. You were screwed up for the rest of your life in some ways, sweetie. Metabolism messed with, your relationship to food permanently corrupted, and really life-twisting anxieties taking stubborn root inside.

This is a portrait you had taken right after you started at UCLA at the very tender age of 17 because your actual senior picture from high school was dreadful, even after two sittings. Did you see yourself well when you were this age?

Not very often, I don’t think.

So I guess my number one bit of advice to you at sweet-sixteen is this one: move out from under your mother’s fears and just be yourself, your own weird and wonderful self. Proudly!

You are a smart girl, kiddo. You know that with part of yourself. You’re in the gifted classes and the other kids think you’re a bit of a nerd. And you are.

Doing something silly for a church event, because that’s where you always, always were as a 16-year-old – at church, doing all kinds of things. And occasionally, some of them were silly.

But believe me, that smart stuff is really going to work out great for you. Yes, it is. In fact, I’d like to encourage you to relax into it. It’s a gift of God, one you don’t fully appreciate and that your mom is a little afraid of (“The boys won’t like you if you’re smarter than they are.”) But it will serve you well.

There is this, though: being smart is not all there is. In fact, it’s not even the best of all there is. And there is a very big piece of you that knows this truth, too. In fact, that’s why you decided to join all those choirs in high school, even though you had to audition and that scared the bejeebers out of you.

Because in those marvelous choral classes, you got to be one of the singers, not one of the brainiacs. And that was a very good thing for you to experience. So good that you’re going to do it for a whole lotta years and every one of those years will be rewarding and rich and will touch the part of yourself that is creative and artistic. So, sing loudly when asked. Say yes to the duets and eventually the solos. Because it’s really good to do something that requires you to face into your fears. Something that helps you learn just a little bit more about trust.

Because, dear girl, that’s going to be the center of your journey for a long, long time: learning to trust. Learning to trust yourself and your instincts, learning to trust your husband and your children, and most of all, learning to trust that God is for you, not against you. No.Matter.What.

You’re going through the motions so well, dear one. And you’re learning so much in that head of yours . . . so much. You’re a leader in your church youth group, you fervently read your Bible and pray for a long list of people. You help at home and never break the rules. You are a very, very good girl.

But you’re beginning to experience some pretty deep questions about life and about faith, about relationships and about family. And if I could tell you anything, I would tell you this: lean into all those questions. Keep on asking them, without fear that you’ll fall of the edge of the earth and into some sort of cosmic lake of fire. Because this is the truth: God is so much bigger. SO.MUCH.BIGGER than you can think or imagine.

God is way bigger than your doubts, your fears, your inhibitions, your insecurities. And this? THIS is what I truly want to say to you —

God believes in YOU.

Yes, you heard me right. God made you, crafted you with love, calls you by name. God will walk with you through all that is to come – all the great stuff and all the terrible stuff, all the beautiful and all the ugly, all the terrifying and all the satisfying. So . . .

write it all down,

come out from under your mother’s fear-soaked shadow,

don’t be scared of all the Big Thoughts you’re having,

and, most of all,

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart….” for God will “direct your paths.”

And you are going to be SO surprised where God’s path takes you.

Love to you from . . .

YOU, all growed up at age 67

P.S. Some of those pathways God will take you down? They’re going to be grand fun!

FRIENDS: If you’d like to know more about Emily Freeman’s book, click on this line right here to read all about it.

I’m also joining this with Emily Wierenga, Ann Voskamp, and the SDG at Jen’s place, if it’s not too late:

Filed Under: God's gifts, personal journey, synchro blogs/blog hops, Writing

5 Minute Friday – Graceful

September 8, 2012 By Diana

Late to the party, but hopefully, not too late. Lisa-Jo issues a weekly 5-minutes-by-the-clock writing prompt and I’ve loved joining in whenever I can. This weeks prompt has been sitting in the back of my fuzzy, aging brain for 24 hours now and maybe, just maybe, something might come out these fingertips as I let my mind go. It’s always fun to try this, so I encourage you to hop over to Lisa-Jo’s beautiful, encouraging blog and check out the other party animals – there’s a whole lotta them.

GRACEFUL

GO:

I used to think about gracefulness like this:

delicate,

beautiful,

breakable,

fragile,

hold-your-breath-watch-in-awe.

But the longer I’ve lived,

the more people I’ve come to love,

the wider my world has become,

the less those words seem to apply to what

graceful

is really all about.

My husband plays tennis,

really, really well.

And he is graceful when he does.

Strong,

swift,

accurate,

powerful,

concentrated.

My grandchildren play a wide variety of games,

engage in fascinating conversations with one another,

and broaden their thinking and their horizons with

every passing year.

They are

open,

eager to learn,

generous with their encouragement,

quick to laugh,

lit from the inside with life.

So I wonder.

All my life, I have felt entirely graceless.

I am physically uncoordinated,

cannot play a sport to save my life,

am large and carry too many pounds,

and feel like an elephant in

most situations.

But maybe, maybe…

grace is not about how I move

or even how I look.

Maybe grace is about

strength,

courage,

adaptability,

openness,

honesty,

commitment,

being able to laugh out loud

at myself,

at life,

at the wonder of it all.

And if that’s true,

then graceful

is attainable.

Graceful

gift

and

reward.

Graceful

is how we grow in life

in faith,

in wonder,

in delight,

in the fear of the Lord.

STOP

My husband inadvertently interrupted me, so this might have gone about 1 minute over the time…

Filed Under: 5 Minute Friday, personal journey, Writing

Entering the Home Stretch. . . A New Place to Write

September 6, 2012 By Diana

This is where I am who I am – in the middle of my family.

With my partner of almost 47 years, our three adult children and their partners,

and our eight grandchildren, ranging in age from 2 to 21 years of age.

I found an invitation in my email inbox last week.

One that surprised me, pleased me and humbled me.

One of my favorite ‘found’ websites, in these 18-20 months of

exploration, reading, commenting and blog-writing,

is called A Deeper Story: Tales of Christ and Culture.

A variety of people write monthly essays there on a wide variety of topics.

They don’t always agree with one another,

they don’t always write things with which I agree.

But they always write things that I value –

honest, searching posts,

filled with questions,

reflections on the beauties and the pain of life,

honest admissions of failure,

invitations to re-think old patterns and prejudices.

About a week ago, there was a cryptic remark on Facebook

about changes coming to this site.

That made me nervous.

Then I read a little further,

and I saw that there was going to be MORE

rather than less of what I loved.

The invitation I got was to become a part of that more.

A Deeper Story is now a 3-channel website.

The original tribe continues to write under the original banner,

with the creative and capable leadership of

dreamer-extraordinaire, Nish Weiseth,

and two new groups have been added to the flagship –

A Deeper Church,

edited by Seth Haines.

And

A Deeper Family,

edited by Megan Tietz,

co-author of my favorite new book on parenting

entitled, “Spirit-Led Parenting:

From Fear to Freedom in Baby’s First Year.”

(I’ve given away three copies so far!)

My surprise invitation came from Megan at A Deeper Family.

Since I am undoubtedly a complete stranger to most of this site’s readers, I decided to try and introduce myself with my first monthly contribution.

And the essay you’ll find there today is what

came to me when I tried to think about

who I am right now,

at the age I am,

the stage I am,

the place I am.

I am entering the home stretch,

and this is how I hope (I pray!)

this last part of the journey plays itself out…

You can read it by clicking here, right here on this line.

I’d be honored if you click over and read. . .

Filed Under: Guest Post, personal journey, Writing

An African Journey: Post Four – An African Wedding

September 5, 2012 By Diana

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

“Hey! Maybe we’ll see you in Africa!”

Ray and Dick were born just a few days apart and ‘met’ at the church their parents attended when they were infants.

They went to high school together and were part of a group of guys who kept connected through college and beyond.
Finding out that they were thinking about

traveling around the world the same time we were?

Astoundingly good news!

And that’s exactly what happened, eight months later.

Only their location was a little more in flux than ours,

we traveled on different ships,

and we weren’t at all sure where they would end up

once we all got there.

As it turned out, for the first few months,

they were housed at a mission station in the bush, about 40 miles away from us. To get there required driving on this dirt road,

the same corrugated dirt road that we traveled

nearly two years later when I went into labor.

There were villages located all through this area,

and all of the people who lived in them walked or rode their bikes to the mission for two primary reasons:

to receive quality medical care or

to get married in the chapel.

Every few weeks, we would drive out that road

to see how our friends were doing.

Or they would come charging into Choma,

often on the motorcycle they bought their first week there.

Their presence was a huge gift to us. Huge.

This was the small rondaval they called home for those months. It was one room, with a corrugated tin roof and an outhouse.

And you may remember how we lived . . .

in a stucco and brick house, with three bedrooms and indoor plumbing.

Plus, we had electricity about 80% of the time.

And yes, we did feel more than a little guilty about

encouraging them to come on this adventure.

They both wanted to teach school,

so while they waited for an assignment,

they lived at Macha Mission.

Ray managed this workroom, and used his considerable mechanical gifts to repair all kinds of things.

Anita made herself useful wherever she could and was

so delighted when they rigged up cooking equipment in their small home.

Prior to that, they had to eat in the main house,

with a tribe of other workers.

Once in a while, that kind of community is a grand thing – if everyone is moderately compatible and easy-going.

But three meals a day, seven days a week?

It can be tough sledding.

In about our third month there, we had a true adventure together.

There was a wedding at Macha – and we were invited!

The wedding was scheduled for about 10:00 a.m.,

but didn’t begin until a little after noon.

Why?

Because in Zambia, it was customary for the groom

to purchase the attire for the bride.

This groom didn’t have a clue about sizing and the dress

he selected for his small wife-to-be was about four sizes too big.

The entire mission staff was busily trying to make adjustments

so that this girl could come down the aisle.

Many safety pins and an improvised cummerbund later

(made from a cloth diaper) – and, voila!

It worked and somehow the wedding happened.

Some western traditions were incorporated – like the clothes and the attendants. But one custom was entirely Tongan:

the bride never looked up, never smiled. Ever.

This was the most important and serious day of her life

and she was not supposed to make light of it in any way.

And she did not.

Following the ceremony, we were invited to the feast held in celebration of the new family – at the groom’s village.

The women had been cooking for hours,

gifts had been gathered,

and the couple’s new hut had been officially decorated . . .

by the groom, with new clothing, fabric and other gifts for his lovely bride.

We drove over a bike path, then a cow path, then through a small stream, where we had to get out and push the Kombi-bus. The bride and groom hitched a ride with us, however, so we knew the party couldn’t begin until we got there.

The houses in the village were made of mud bricks, the roofs thatch. The smaller structures were grain storage bins because the staple food for this entire region is ensima, a porridge made from ground field corn. Every village kept a ready supply of the tough kernels in these small, raised huts, out of the reach of hungry warthogs and wandering cattle.

In the morning, ensima is served thin, gruel-style.

For meals later in the day, it is quite stiff and usually served with a relish – most often vegetables, but on special occasions, chicken or beef.

This was a special occasion and there was chicken cooking in the pots!

Meals were cooked communally and sometimes eaten together,

sometimes in smaller family units.

On this day, we were ushered into the groom’s hut and food was brought to us.

We felt overwhelmed and embarrassed by so much special attention,

but had been told ahead of time what to expect

and to just receive this hospitality for the lovely gift it was.

The groom’s hut was not quite as large as this one and did not have windows,

but it was cozy and welcoming.

As I recall, I was not feeling at all well that day, but I was determined not to miss this once-in-a-lifetime experience!

You can just barely see that the groom has a good supply of both sugar and hand soap – high on the list of desirable products to own.

They brought us so.much.food – stiff corn meal mush and some stewed chicken to go with it. And we loved the enamel ware bowls it came in!

This was the view looking out the door of the groom’s hut,

just a snapshot of village life.

After everyone had eaten their fill, the party began.

There was dancing,

and there was singing,

and there was gift-giving.

Each gift would be danced up to the couple –

a five-pound bag of sugar,

a box of tea,

a bar of soap or a box of soap flakes.

Everyone was delighted to be there and showered this

couple with love and generosity.

About six weeks after this remarkable adventure,

Ray and Anita were moved 500 miles south of us

to one of the oldest mission stations of the denomination.

It was located in the beautiful, rocky landscape of the Matopos hills in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe.

Getting together got a lot more complicated.

We thanked God for the steam train and made the effort, however.
And we got to see some gorgeous country in the process.

This is the school where Ray and Anita taught for nearly two years. They had indoor plumbing and generated electricity during daylight hours. They loved their students and made some long-time friends in this place.

Whenever we visited, they took us sight-seeing.

And there were such beautiful sights to see.

They came back to Zambia to visit us, too.

We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries together when we could, laughing and enjoying the long threads of our shared history.

Anita was one of the greatest friends of my life.

She taught me how to cook, how to laugh,

how to enjoy life.

She died one month before I began my life in Santa Barbara

and I have missed her ever since.

Ray was skilled at so many things and so generous with those skills!

He and Dick shared many years of close friendship.

After we returned to the States,

our families gathered every New Year’s Eve and Day,

and vacationed together several times.

Those ties were begun here,

in our bright red kitchen and their hilltop adobe home.

Ties that connected us heart to heart,

soul to soul.

Sharing such life-changing experiences binds people

in ways that are hard to describe or define.

But I am eternally grateful for all of it –

the experiences,

the ties,

the friendship.

I am so very glad we had this cross-cultural

adventure when we were young,

but I find that what I miss now that I am not-so-young is

not the adventure itself, but that sense of long history with heart-friends.

It has never been replicated in our lives.

And as I look at these old pictures,

as I read the letters I sent home,

it is this connection that I miss the most.

There simply is no substitute for it.

Thank you, Ray and Anita, for loving us well

and sharing our lives for so many years.

I miss you.

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

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

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

September 1, 2012 By Diana

It’s been a strange sort of week.

‘Found time,’ here at home,

time we thought we’d be traveling –

but we’re not.

So we got to extend our days with our

youngest granddaughter by a couple of weeks,

and that was sweet.

Next Wednesday, she begins pre-school.

We took time to plan vacations for next year,

always a fun thing to do.

But communication with the agent got a little dicey

and we weren’t sure why.

Everything worked out in the end;

it generally does.

Yesterday, we went to see “The Odd Life of Timothy Green,”

and found it quirky and sweet.

And then the projector blew up about 2/3 of the way through.

Say what?

We got a couple of free theater tickets out of it,

but still . . .

So we had an early dinner at a nearby

cheap-o place that turned out to be pretty good,

and we shopped at Costco, to prepare

for the thundering herd (in the nicest possible way!)

that will descend on us for the holiday weekend.

It was 7:00 p.m. and the sky was unusually pretty,

so I turned the car right instead of left as we drove out of the parking lot, and headed to Isla Vista – the crazy college community that isn’t quite crazy yet,

as UCSB hasn’t begun their fall semester.

There was a good place to park, so I grabbed it,

reached in the back seat for my camera bag,

and headed out onto the bluffs,

just as the sun was beginning its last

sinking, saturating radiance,

and the blue moon was starting its ascendency.

And I walked.

And I looked.

And I breathed.

Every once in a while,

I stopped to take a picture

to exclaim over the beauty all around,

and to say, ‘Thank you’ to the One who made it all.

Come along with me, won’t you?

(By the way, I have no idea what all those multi-colored small flags mean,

but they were pretty and whimsical in their own right, so I took their picture.

And I have to say that just scrolling through these pictures makes me say ‘Thank You’ over and over again. I cannot begin to put into words how grateful I am to live where I do.)

And these words from scripture jumped out at

me as I reflected on this experience today,

the day after all that confusion – and all that beauty.

Because someday, all that we see now as

spectacular,

glorious,

breath-taking,

and life-giving

will pale in comparison to the LIGHT

that will overwhelm and bedazzle us on the Day of the LORD.

“No longer will violence be heard in your land,

nor ruin or destruction within your borders,

but you will call your walls Salvation

and your gates Praise.

The sun will no more be your light by day,

nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you,

for the LORD will be your everlasting light,

and your God will be your glory.

Your sun will never set again,

and your moon will wane no more;

the LORD will be your everlasting light,

and your days of sorrow will end.”

Isaiah 60:18-20

Joining Michelle DeRusha’s invitation to Summer, for the last time this year,

and with Sandy and Deidra for their ongoing weekend invitation to quietness and reflection.

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

Things Change. . . A Mixed Media Post

August 31, 2012 By Diana

Life has gotten interesting of late. And I haven’t had as much opportunity to join with Lisa-Jo as I’d like. But when I saw this week’s prompt, I went to my draft pile and pulled this one up. I started to write it a week ago, to note what feels like a great, big, massive change in our lives – our youngest grandchild will no longer require our weekly care.

Gasp. She begins pre-school next week. How can this be??

So, you’ll see where I began the timed part of this post – and I surprised myself with where I went from there. Isn’t that always the way with 5 Minute Friday??

(Pictures added both before and after the 5 minutes!)

Lilly – one-hour old

About 10 months old.

Feeding the bluejays with Poppy.

Tough girl pose – 15 months.

Playing doctor, 18 months.

Sweetness at 22 months.

Just a little uncertainty, also 22 months.

A series of wild-hair shots. Oh, my – yes. About 2 years old.

At her 2nd birthday party.

Under some semblance of control with Aunt Lisa, just past her 2nd birthday.

Lilly at 2 years, 6 months – how can it be?

A little dress-up play, three weeks ago.

Perhaps a cell phone would have been simpler for this little jaunt??

Every Wednesday since June of 2010,

she has come to our house to play.

And eat.

And sleep.

She was four months old when we began,

and I was just weeks out of the hospital,

and more tired than I knew.

So when nap time came,

I would put her down on the bed next to me.

I’d run the TV softly to create a little white noise,

and sit next to her while she slept,

my computer on my lap.

During those first months,

I would do email,

research for teaching or preaching,

and wonder what the looming world

of retirement would be like.

Since the end of that year,

I’ve used Lilly’s nap time to

read blogs,

check Facebook,

think about posts,

write posts,
and watch her while she sleeps.

START:
Two days ago marked the end of an era for us,
an end to babies.
First there were our own three,
each of them remarkable,
unique,
full of fun and curiosity and determination.
Then those three grew up,
met some pretty amazing partners,
and started having babies of their own.
Three boys from daughter number one –
one, two, three.
Three boys from daughter number two –
one, two, three.
Loud, rough-and tumble,
some more than others –
wonderful promise of sturdy men to come.
Then, just one month after that last boy,
our boy and his wife had a GIRL.
Glory be.
And nearly four years and one miscarriage later,
another girl.
And now, they tell me, they are done.
Their family is complete.
So.
Will I live to see great-grandbabies?
It’s within the realm of possibility –
our eldest is 21.
But I’m not sure it’s within the realm
of probability.

Everyone waits theses days.
We married young,
had kids while we were kids.
Not so much anymore.
There is education to be gotten,
jobs to be found,
houses to be bought,
lives to be lived.
And that’s all wonderful. . .
but . . .
I wouldn’t change a thing about our journey.
I loved growing up TOGETHER,
hanging on by a shoestring,
having babies before we had the money for them,
and loving every (well, almost every!) minute of it.
So,
change comes.
And we?
We roll with it,
or
it rolls right over us.

STOP.

Maybe I won’t miss this mess every week . . .

. . . and maybe I won’t miss this weekly menagerie as I tried to get a very sleep-resistant girl to acquiesce . . .

But this?

(at 15 months old)

And this? (last week)

And yes, THIS (two days ago) I will most definitely miss.
She now covers almost the entire bed . . .

. . . and sometimes adjusts herself to make contact, her head on my leg as I type.
Sigh.

Filed Under: 5 Minute Friday, family, memoir, parenting, personal journey, Photo Essay

The Saving Grace of Work

August 30, 2012 By Diana

This post was originally written almost exactly one year ago in response to an invitation from Charity Singleton for a High Calling Blog Hop. I’m reposting it today for Ed Cyzewski’s week of blogposts on “A Hazardous Faith,” the title of a recently released book he co-authored. This particular post is actually more about a long-term season of struggle in the life of our family – both my immediate family and our church family. And it speaks to the role of my pastoral work as an anchor and strong center during that tumultuous time. Because, let’s face it – LIFE is hazardous – that is just a fact. And following Jesus in the midst of it somehow manages to both add to and subtract from the riskiness of it all. We are never promised sunshine and roses when we choose to place our feet in the shadow of the Rabbi, no matter what the televangelists might tell you. We are not rescued from life and its losses. Rather, we are invited into a relationship that makes those losses easier to navigate, a relationship that never ends and never fails.

2009 was most definitely not my favorite year.

Come to think of it, 2008 and 2007 were pretty rotten, too.

And 2006 and 2005 were not a whole heckuva lot better.

At times, it felt as though we were riding a dangerously out of control roller coaster, careening from side to side, tilting on one very narrow edge as we rounded some treacherous turns and corners.

My dad died at the beginning of this long stretch of tough stuff, a rugged dying, leaving my mom both exhausted from care-giving and desperately lonely for her partner.

My husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer about two months later, enduring painful and debilitating surgery and still in recovery mode during a long-planned anniversary trip to France soon after.

Our son-in-law was applying for long-term disability, literally fading away before our eyes. His wife, our eldest daughter, was beginning an education process that would give her a master’s degree and special ed certification in 12 months. Their three boys were struggling to find their bearings in this new universe.

Our middle daughter’s 3rd boy was born in distress, tiny and in the NICU for 5 days. Our daughter-in-law needed a slightly dicey C-section for her first-born, just weeks after her cousin’s difficult entry into the world.

My youngest brother landed in the ER with a severe leg infection, requiring a long list of care-giving efforts from me, my other brother and our mom. This illness began a long, downward spiral of long-missed diagnoses, homelessness, sober living residences, heart surgery and eventually, sudden death in 2009.

Our son-in-law entered the last year of his life with multiple hospitalizations, serious complications of a wide variety, and a miraculous six-month respite, giving us all some memories that were lovely and lasting. That year, 2008, ended with a devastating pneumonia that took his life in a matter of hours.

And the next year, our beautiful town was hit by wildfires – two times – requiring evacuation from home and church, plunging our worshiping community into emergency mode for months on end.

As I said, it was an unbelievably difficult few years.

And every week, except for vacations and emergencies, I went to work. Many people wondered why. Why do you want to step into other people’s difficult situations? Why do you want to visit the sick? Why do you want to write Bible study lessons? Why do you still want to preach in the rotation? Why do you want to lead in worship? Why? Haven’t you got enough on your plate already?

I don’t know that I can fully answer that question.
But I will try to write a coherent list of possible reasons in this space:

work grounded me;
work reminded me I was not alone;
work taught me about community;
work provided an external focus;
work brought at least the illusion of order
to my terribly disordered world;
work kept me from drowning;
work brought relief from the weight of worry that
was an almost constant companion;
work allowed me to stay in touch with the
creative parts of me as well as the care-giving parts;
work gave me a different place to look,
a different place to reflect,
a different space in which to be me –
the me that was called and gifted and capable.
As opposed to the me that was helpless,
impotent and
overwhelmed.

Work was something I could do,
something I could manage,
something I could control – within limits.
My life was spinning frantically out of control,
at least out of my control,
heading down deep and dark crevasses that terrified me.
Work was more easily containable,
expectations were clear,
contributions were valued.
Work was grace for me during that long,
long stretch of Job-like living.

Work was a gift,
a gift of God to a weary and worried woman.
It allowed me room to breathe,
it provided me with commitments I could keep,
it brought me into contact with people who
could actually use what I had to offer.
And it brought me into contact with people
who could bear me up,
who could tend my gaping wounds,
who could be as Jesus to me,
even as I tried to be as Jesus to those
I loved most in this world.

I did not do any of it perfectly.
Lord knows, that isn’t even possible
and it surely wasn’t true.

My body let me know how big the load had become last year, when it was my turn to enter the hospital and begin round after round of medical appointments.

The end of 2010 brought the end of my work life. I have missed it at times. But I am discovering that even in the lack of structure and schedule of these first months of retirement, God is underneath. And around and in between. Just as God has always been.

I don’t completely understand why this truth is true, I just know this: the gift and grace of work helped me to see and to know God’s presence when the roller coaster was tilting crazily. And somehow, we’re still here, clinging to the sides of the coaster car, doing our very best to enjoy the ride.

Please check out the other posts being offered today in this busy week of commentary on a powerful topic. Here is a link to today’s page at Ed’s blog.
And while you’re there, why not order a copy of Ed’s new book?
He is a great guy, a talented writer and editor and he has a brand new baby boy.
Go on, make his day.

(Sorry, Ed, I couldn’t make the banner work.)