personal journey

True Confessions: The TSP Book Club

May 30, 2012 By Diana

Okay, it’s time for the weekly check-in.

We’re reading Julia Cameron’s, “The Artist’s Way”

over at TweetSpeak Poetry,

under the fearless leadership of Lyla Lindquist.

If you read last week’s initial response to this book,

then you already know that I am

a Rebellious Resistor

to this methodology.

Which, I am told – as I read further this week –

is actually to be expected as one tries to

free one’s inner artist.

So much for originality.

I am still resisting the Morning Pages part of this experience,

or as I referred to them last week, ‘the dang pages.’

I believe I did them exactly once.

However,

I am totally embracing the Artist’s Date concept.

I think you might even say I’ve gone a bit overboard

in that department.

The floral pictures in this post were taken during the second

(or was it the third?) daytime treat experience of

the week just past. They were taken at a local garden,

a wondrous place called “Seaside Gardens,”

where our kids had given their dad a gift certificate for his birthday.

Oh my, did that light my inner creative fires!

(Or course, I had to break the rules a little –

I didn’t go alone.)

I did, however, take myself out to eat at a favorite restaurant,

with my book in hand.

AND I squeezed in a visit to a grandson’s kindergarten

play, where he played the role of:

The Big Bad Wolf

The Three Piggy Opera.

(here he is rubbing his hands together gleefully while

singing, “I wanna big, fat pig to eat…”)

The scary thing for me in all this is –

I am beginning to see a pattern.

A life-long pattern.

And it’s nowhere near as pretty as the one

that showed up in this Norfolk Pine at the Seaside Gardens.

No, it’s not pretty. At.All.

I’m beginning to see this thread,

a twisty, unattractive thread

that weaves through a lot of my life.

And it goes like this:

First,

I get scared of something or someone

who threatens me in some way.

Or…I get tired/frustrated/overwhelmed

by expectations – mine and/or others.

Step Two?

I get angry inside.

Pitiful, really.

Sort of carpy, cranky, testy,

defensive, self-righteous,

judgmental.

You get the picture.

Not a lovely one, is it?

And thirdly? I try to hide what I’m feeling

or what I’m frightened about.

And you want to know how I’ve done that for most of my life?

By eating too much.

By covering myself in layers of insulation.

By hiding all the fear and all the anger

beneath a protective covering.

(Did you notice that I went out to eat for my Artist’s Date?

And that my grandson was singing about eating??

I jest…but only a little.)

I’ve had some success in the last year or two with

shedding pieces of that covering.

But I gotta say,

this book is bringing out the worst in me.

How childish is that??

I mean, really.

What have I got to be angry or defensive about?

She asked us to make a list of favorite things we like to do

and then to write down when we did them last.

And almost all of them I’ve done in the last week,

3 or 4 of them as I was making the list!

And my ‘Life Pie,’ which one of our chapters this week

asked us to draw?

Aside from confirming the fact

that I cannot draw a pie to save my life,
my six areas are in pretty decent balance.

And the list of 10 small changes we’d like to make

in our lives?

Perhaps this says it all:

Item number 10 on my list?

“I would like to wring Julia’s neck.”

I wish I could report that I’m making great progress,

leaps and bounds kind of progress,

in letting go of this resistance.

But as you can see,

I’m not leaping and bounding anywhere,

except perhaps straight into the Slough of Despond.

One tiny ray of light, of hope this week?

I did enjoy writing down 5 childhood characteristics

that I like about myself.

I share this with you very hesitantly, however,

as it probably tells you more about me

than I really want you to know.

But here they are:

1. Inquisitive

2. Bossy

(bossy? who puts bossy on their list?)

3. Responsible

4. Lighthearted

5. A voracious reader

Truly, dear reader, do you think there is any hope for me?

Joining once again with the gang over at Tweetspeak, hoping they will not give up on me just yet.
You can check out the other posts in this collection by going here:

Filed Under: Book Club, Book Review, personal journey, Wonderings in the World

Five Minute Friday: Opportunity

May 25, 2012 By Diana

For the first time in a very long time, I’m joining with Lisa-Jo at The Gypsy Mama for her 5-Minute Friday link-up. Five minutes for free-writing – no editing, no over-thinking, no re-do’s. JUST WRITE.

Today’s prompt? OPPORTUNITY

A recent opportunity came knocking in the form of a week on St. Thomas with our son and his family. Glad we heard that one!

GO:

They say it only knocks once – but I remain unconvinced.

Seems to me, it comes ’round the door on a regular basis.

Question is: Do we hear it?
Do we see it?

Sometimes I’ve been paying attention and I grab onto it for all I’m worth.

Like the time I met this brown-eyed guy at a college mixer and said, “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

Or the time that same brown-eyed guy said, “Hey, I’m heading to Africa for two years. Wanna come along?” Oh, yeah, that one was definitely not to be missed.

And then there were those three surprises – well 2 out of 3, anyway. Each of them the most golden of all the opportunity-knocking I had yet encountered. Not.to.be.missed.

Then there was this weird kind of soft tapping that began somewhere inside my gut and gradually spread to my heart and my brain. A tap-tap-tap that said, “Come with Me, dear one. Test your wings – try seminary. You’ll like it.”

And I did.

And then maybe the scariest one of all came while I was enjoying the student life after 22 years. This one came gently, in the voices of others, in the words of scripture and finally, as an almost visible LED readout across my forehead: “I want you to be my minister.”

Wow.

And now, even now, I hear that tapping from time to time. Opportunity keeps showing up.

May I have the wisdom to see, to hear. And the courage to say, “Why, yes! I’d love to.”

STOP.

Filed Under: 5 Minute Friday, family, ministry, personal journey, Writing

Resistance & Rebellion – Living with My Inner Artist

May 25, 2012 By Diana

She went with us to the Caribbean,

in all her multiple-quotation,

list-of-affirmations,

call-to-creativity glory.

And I dutifully read all of the introductory

material and chapter one,

learning about such things as

the brains we all juggle

(Logic/Artist);

the principles of creativity

and why we need to live by them;

the powerful voice of the Inner Censor.

And most appropriately,

I learned about the Creative Block.

Why appropriate, you ask?

Because at the end of it all,

I found myself in the middle of

a big, fat, nasty one,

that’s why.

I was on vacation.

And Julia asked me to commit to

WORK.

Morning pages,

an Artist’s Date,

Weekly Check-Ins,

a timeline look back at my life,

in search of Monsters who might

have stifled my budding artistic genius.

But here’s something you may not know about me:

I am, at heart, a Rebel.

I know, I know.

I don’t look like a rebel at all.

I am a ‘good girl’

(if people of my age are allowed

to refer to themselves as ‘girls’).

I’m a pastor, for pete’s sake.

I’m older.

I dress conservatively

(except for the occasional wild and crazy color

and a whole lotta jewelry).

I take care of others.

Yes, I do a whole of that last one.

I take care of others.

I read the Bible and I do so

because I believe that I meet God there.

I am a centrist theologically.

I am a centrist in most things.

But.

I resist following the rules.

I resent being told how to do things.

I don’t tolerate what I perceive to be ‘fluff’ too well.

My eyes tend to glaze over when

I read the words ‘affirmation’

or ‘ creative recovery.’

Imagine my response, then, to this volume.

Oh, I’ve underlined it aplenty,

I’ve even got stars and creased corners on

lots and lots of pages.

I actually liked a lot of what I read,

agreed with it, too.

Until I got to the part where I had to do something about it.

Yeah, that’s when the Rebel showed up.

Don’t know if she’s related to the Inner Censor,

but I have a hunch they’re kissin’ cousins.

Because once I started reading about what I

needed to do to release my Inner Artist –

I started to push back, HARD.

First of all, I don’t do longhand anymore.

Never was good at it

(yes, that’s the voice of the Inner Censor –

but it’s also the voice of reality),

I hate doing it and can’t really read what I write anymore.

(Of course, we’re not supposed to read this stuff.

We’re just supposed to write it.)

And I’m not a morning person.

AT ALL.

And in my dotage,

I indulge my non-morning-ness whenever I can.

So the two times I actually did write the dang pages,

it was well into mid-day.

The Artist’s Date?

Now, that’s something I can wrap my mind around.

In fact, it’s something I actually already do,

although I’ve never called it that.

I seek solitude, often at the beach or a favorite restaurant,

and I look for beauty wherever I go.

That one was a cinch.

The timeline I got to today.

And here’s what I discovered –

the biggest Monster in my story is…

ME.

Yup. I get in my own way more than anyone else ever has.

Sure, my mom (and my dad) had hopelessly high

expectations for me when I was a child.

They were both artists in their own way

and my small muscle development was lousy

(remember what I said about handwriting earlier?).

So I just quit trying to do anything with my hands.

And I quite trying very, very early.

I couldn’t play piano like my dad or my brother.

I couldn’t draw or create beauty like my mother,

so I didn’t do it.

Ever.

Until I went to college and no longer felt the weight of my parents’ abilities pressing in on me every single day.

And when I began to venture out a little here,

a little there, it turned out I could do some things

acceptably well.

Not great, but okay.

But the real, true chicken-heart was inside me,

not my parents, not my teachers, not my friends,

not my employers.

Me.

So.

Now I’m facing this HUGE block.

No ideas.

No desire.

No sense of call.

No sense of giftedness.

Nada.

Zilch.

Think maybe I’m just the teensiest bit resistant?

The Rebellious Resistor.

Pretty much my middle name.

Sigh.

Joining with Lyla and the gang over at Tweetspeak Poetry for the interactive posting about Julia Cameron’s classic book, “The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity.” As you can tell, I have a lot of inner work to do. Oy vey. Lord, have mercy.

Filed Under: Book Review, community, personal journey, Wonderings in the World, Writing

Lessons from the Vineyard

May 7, 2012 By Diana

“I am the vine,” he said.

“You are the branches.”

We live in vineyard country here in Santa Barbara County.

It has not always been so.

For hundreds of years, the rolling hills around our county

looked like this. They were covered with oak trees,

singly or straggling down the hillsides by the dozen,

creating a landscape unique to this part of the world.

Then the trees began going down by the hundreds,

bulldozed to make room for

vineyards that look like this.

Miles and miles of vineyards.

Espaliered grape vines began to sprout out of the ground, neat rows replacing the random gorgeousness

of oaks and wildflowers.

For many, this felt like an assault on nature,

beauty and

the central coast way of life.

For others, it was evidence of a dream come true.

About a dozen years ago, county supervisors decided to stop the wholesale destruction of native oak groves,

insisting that any new vineyard acreage be built around

the natural habitat instead of through it.

As the vineyards matured, those of us who live by and drive on these highways and byways began to take note of the new beauty around us, enjoying the contrast of

planned and unplanned vegetation.

Now we can follow the seasons by paying attention to what’s happening in the vineyards.

The brilliant, lush green foliage of summer,

the red-gold shimmer of fall,

as the harvest begins.

The increasingly bare branches as December approaches.

It is when the branches are at their barest that some of the most important work of the year happens:

pruning.

That good work of shaping, sorting, sifting through the vines for the best, preserving only what will produce good fruit the following year.

Winter is the time for trimming and cutting and neatening things,

making space for the plumpest of red, purple or green grapes, grapes that will grow heavy and rich as harvest time approaches.

It’s during the pruning season that things are made ready.

Dead wood is removed,

unproductive sucker growth is tossed into the fire.

And sure enough,

when March rolls around,

new growth starts to shoot,

reaching for the sun, growing strong and sturdy,

ready to support the heaviest of clusters,

the richest of harvests.

I wonder, what season am I in?

In terms of my lifetime, I know it is autumn.

And that means the fruit should be ready.

How has the Master of the Vineyard pruned and shaped

and trimmed and cut back the branch that is me?

Have I consented to the shears?

The ones that want to cut away the lies?

The lies I tell and the lies I believe,

the dead stuff that weighs me down

and keeps me stuck.

Have I invited the Husbandman to trim away the compulsions, the anxieties, the addictions – however they may reveal themselves in my life?

Have I said ‘yes’ to the Gardener, the one

who sees what is full of life and promise and potential,

the one who can see what will yield the sweetest of fruit?

And have I allowed my soul-tendrils to sink firmly into the Vine,

practicing those things that will help me to dwell,

to stand firm in,

to steady myself,

to ABIDE?

For much of my life, I feared this word of Jesus in the gospel of John.

Taught that bad branches would end up in the fire, I wanted to work ever-so-hard to pump out those grapes!

It is only in recent years –

these years that I’ve been driving through vineyard country – that I’ve begun to realize that ALL the branches on the vine are pruned.

And that kind of pruning is a good thing.

Everyone of us has stuff that needs to be cut away,

thrust into the incinerator,

moved aside

so that there is more breathing room for good things,

sweet things,

rich things,

nourishing things…

for FRUIT.

It sounds so scary, though, doesn’t it?

Painful, too.

And I suppose sometimes, it is.

It’s painful to let go of habits,

attitudes,

prejudices,

fears,

compulsive behaviors,

reactivity,

defensiveness,

self-righteousness,

and all those things we fill that interior space with,

day in and day out.

But… here’s the thing:

it all needs to go.

All of it.

And for good reason, too.

It’s hard to produce

love,

joy,

peace,

forbearance,

kindness,

goodness,

faithfulness,

gentleness,

self-control

when the branch is laden down with all that other crap.

So…as my own winter draws near,

will I allow the Vineyard Owner to do what needs to be done?

I hope so. I really do.

Because a well-pruned branch,

lovingly shaped and carefully trimmed –

well that’s where the good stuff grows.

My thanks to Don Johnson for his reflection on this passage in worship this morning.

And special thanks to Bob Gross for his wonderful musical setting of an obscure old hymn, bringing words to life in new and fresh ways.

Joining Michelle for her “Hear It on Sunday” gathering,

Jen and the Soli deo gloria sisterhood,

Laura at “Playdates with God,”

and L.L. with “On, In and Around Monday”

Filed Under: biblical reflection, personal journey, Photo Essay, Sunday Reflections, Wonderings in the Word

Remembering with Gratitude: A Life Well-Lived

March 10, 2012 By Diana

Abbot David Nicholas Geraets, OSB
March 4, 1935-March 2, 2012

Entered St. Benedict’s Abbey, Benet Lake Wisconsin
Made monastic profession – September 1, 1957
Ordained to the priesthood – September 29, 1962
Baptized by the Holy Spirit – November 1967 and began
ministry to the charismatic renewal.
Elected First Abbot of Pecos Monastery – April 11, 1973
Abbatial Service – 1973-1992
Conventual Prior in San Luis Obispo 1992-2012

I’m fumbling around for the right earrings.

Packing an overnight bag for a short trip.

My fingers trip and tangle,

the jewelry falls on the counter,

and I feel the tears behind my eyes.

Looking up into the mirror,

I ask myself:

“What does one wear to a wake?

To a Resurrection Mass for a priest,

an abbot,

a mentor,

a friend?

What do I wear?”

And the answer comes,

“Wear your heart.”

And I pack it right up,

lay it in the suitcase,

next to the small jewelry box,

the St. Benedict medal on its chain,

the clear colors he always noticed,

the small, ordinary pieces of an everyday life.

Because that’s all I’ve got, isn’t it?

This heart full of memories,

of words heard and received,

of sweet smiles and heartfelt prayers and gentle marks of the cross.

We drive north,

this drive we’ve taken together for almost two years now.

Ever since my health scare and hospitalization in May of 2010, my husband has chosen to make this trip with me each month.

He takes long walks up and down the steep driveway of the monastery while I sit in the Holy Spirit House with the abbot.

We’ve both come to love this day-long venture together.

And I wonder as the wheels turn and the miles slide by,

will this be the last time?

And I wonder,

is this really why we’re going today?

To say good-bye?

We choose to stay overnight at the coast,

15 minutes from the mortuary and the church.

A good, good choice for us ocean people.

Just walking on the bluffs in the warm wind,

it blows courage into our souls.

We get there early,

the mortuary where the vigil will be held.

Because that, I learn, is what a monastic wake is all about.

It’s a time for call and response singing and reading,

for sharing memories and stories,

for keeping vigil with one another

on the eve of the final good-bye.

A short, strong nun leads the sung part of our prayer time.

And she is gifted, so gifted.

Gracious, confident, calling us to join the song with the lifting of her arms.

I relax into the music, letting the Spirit sink deep.

The brothers read lines from St. Gregory about St. Benedict.

We sing the “Sucsipe” – the song sung by every Benedictine priest at the time of vows and renewal of vows:

“Receive me, O Lord,

as you have promised

and I shall live.

Do not disappoint me in my hope.”

Can I just tell you how deeply

and strongly

my soul and spirit resonate with this kind of worship?

Simple melodies,

heartfelt words,

the ability to be silent without tension.

Too many churches in my life do not know how to do silence. At all.

These warmhearted, generous Catholic friends?

They know how.

And the next day, it is the same.

This time a formal Resurrection Mass,

complete with the presiding Bishop of the diocese and a trailing line of priests from all kinds of places,

sitting together, joining their voices throughout the litany.

“A motley crew,” the bishop named them.

And they are that.

But I think perhaps these are a brave crew, too.

Standing and singing and praying together for a departed friend.

The same nun leads the singing, serving as cantor extraordinaire.

The scriptures are chosen from those David loved –

the Shepherd’s psalm

(which we sing and I am undone, just undone),

Habakkuk 3 – the vision will come…wait for it

Revelation 21 – behold, I make all things new…

John 3 – unless you be born from above…

And his friend and partner in work,

Father Ray Roh preaches a magnificent memorial sermon.

I am blessed, grateful, aware that this was not an easy task to take.

Communion is moving, as it always is.

All stand, in prayer and attention, until each person is served.

And we sing, we sing.

New to this world of Catholic gatherings,

we assumed a 2:00 service would be followed by a reception of desserts, to which we happily contributed a big bowl of beautiful fresh berries and some cookie bars.

Oh, no.

A full lunch spread – gorgeous and yummy looking.

Except, of course, we had eaten lunch.

So we watched and listened and felt the love vibrating throughout the Parish Hall.

And then we washed out our bowl,

loaded the car

and headed home.

Encouraged, exhausted, fed.

Grateful, grieving, content in a strange and satisfying way.

We are left marveling that we

never knew such richness existed in this Catholic space,

that we were so narrow in our view of life,

of worship,

of God.

And the simple, haunting melody of that psalm,

that’s what we each remembered,

that’s what we continue to draw on.

Here is a YouTube version of Marty Haugen’s beautiful liturgical rendition of Psalm 23.

The response comes first – to teach the congregation.

Then the verses, followed by the response each time.

Watch, savor, listen, SING:

All I can say,

all I can sing,

all I can pray is
THANK YOU, LORD.

THANK YOU.

We’re heading out of town for a while in the morning. I hope to have a chance to link this with Michelle at “Graceful” and with Jen at “Finding Heaven.” But I’ll publish it now and link to it on Facebook in case I can’t find reliable internet service while we’re away.

Thanks to so many of you for your kind words, your support and encouragement and your prayers. Oh, most definitely, your prayers.
I also tagged onto both Laura’s this week – Barkat at “Seedlings in Stone,” and Boggess at “The Wellspring,” and at Ann Voskamp’s Wednesday round-up. And today, I’ll tag in at Bonnie’s place as she’s taking six weeks off to finish her book! And at “Journey to Ephiphany,” who has so kindly taken on Emily Weirenga’s weekly log-in:

Filed Under: grief, hope, memoir, personal journey, Spiritual Direction, Sunday Reflections, Travel

A Lenten Journey: Climbing to the Cross – Day NINE

March 2, 2012 By Diana

Chagall Blue Windows, St. Stephen’s Church, Mainz, Germany

(I believe these were some of the ones done by his students, after his death.)

1 Corinthians 3:16-23, The Message:

You realize, don’t you, that you are the temple of God, and God himself is present in you? No one will get by with vandalizing God’s temple, you can be sure of that. God’s temple is sacred—and you, remember, are the temple.

Don’t fool yourself. Don’t think that you can be wise merely by being up-to-date with the times.

Be God’s fool—that’s the path to true wisdom.

What the world calls smart, God calls stupid.

It’s written in Scripture,

   He exposes the chicanery of the chic.
   The Master sees through the smoke screens
      of the know-it-alls.

I don’t want to hear any of you bragging about yourself or anyone else. Everything is already yours as a gift—Paul, Apollos, Peter, the world, life, death, the present, the future—all of it is yours,

and you are privileged to be in union with Christ, who is in union with God.

_______

If I let myself, I could begin to feel ever-so-slightly smug and superior to those Corinthian Christians.

They’re just a mess.

There’s sexual immorality going on, right in the congregation.

They apparently like to brag about themselves and how smart they are.

They insist on choosing sides – playing up their favorite teachers and insisting that he/she is the best.

They can’t seem to keep all the teaching straight – they forget about certain truths when it’s convenient to do so

They just don’t get the whole Jesus scene, do they? (she said, condescendingly.)

Gulp.

Ummm…I’ve just read over this list – and every single thing on it has been true in one congregation or another that I’ve been a part of.

And way more of it than I like to admit is also true of me.

Like…

An unhealthy spirit of competition.

An oh-so-convenient forgetting of some things when remembering them might be tough…

or embarrassing,

or frustrating,

or scary,

or completely counter-intuitive.

An entrenched belief that intelligence is what matters,

that education wins the day and proves the point,

that understanding things with my mind is much more important than living them with my life.

Okay. I’m feeling embarrassed, maybe just a wee bit more humble.

So…maybe I’m ready to read these words again, a little more slowly this time.

And I discover that the admonitions in this short selection of verses are ringing in my head, with chimes of

validation,

agreement and

regret.

Because I’ve certainly done my share of vandalizing this temple of mine:

too much food,

too little exercise,

too little sleep.

And I do try to keep up with the times – yes, I do.

I try to be at least minimally well-read,

to be able to support whatever position I might hold

on any given subject,

quoting chapter-and-verse of the latest ‘in’ guru.

And the very LAST thing I ever want to do is look the fool.

Heaven forbid!

Ah. That’s exactly it, isn’t it.

Heaven does not forbid my looking like a fool.

In fact, it seems that heaven encourages my looking like a fool.

Ouch.

I really don’t like the sound of that at all.

What will people think?

How will I survive the embarrassment, the humiliation?

Here’s how: by remembering.

Specifically – remembering that everything I need to know, everything I need to live – is already mine, as a gift.

A gift.

“…the world, life, death, the present, the future.”

It’s already mine.

Imagine that!

On second thought,

in light of this truth,

maybe looking the fool isn’t such a bad thing after all.

_____

Lord God Almighty, may I consistently live the life of the holy fool, one who is freed from the burden of over-caring about the opinions of others; free to live the Jesus life, to love the Jesus love, to whoop and holler or to weep and rail, all at the gentle guiding of your Spirit. Help me always to remember that the life I live – and the death I die; the present I inhabit and the future I will discover – are all mine by your gracious gift.

Click here for day one of this series and an explanation of what it’s all about.

Filed Under: biblical reflection, Lenten Journey, personal journey, Wonderings in the Word

5 Minute Friday – GRIT: An Essay with Photos

February 24, 2012 By Diana

Wowza. It’s Friday again. Whoosh – that week just flew by. But every Friday, we try to write like we believe we can fly (Lisa-Jo’s fine words). So I’ll give it a whirl, one more time. Take a prompt. Set a timer. GO. Write. STOP. And see what comes out. Try it, you’ll like it. And check out a few others who’ve got it going on over at The Gypsy Mama’s place.

This week’s prompt? GRIT
GO:

I got some grit between my toes today. Yes, I surely did.

It was bright and beautiful here.

And I had a ton of errands to run. But not so many that I couldn’t take a break at lunchtime and run down to the beach.

I went to the slough – an engineered salt water river and estuary that draws the water birds, by the hundreds.

And I walked right down onto the sand with my camera in hand, and I started pointing and shooting.

And smiling inside.

In a big, big way.

Because when I’m tired.
Or when I’m worried.
Or when I’m feeling insecure, or out of place, or not at all sure that I’m doing what I ‘should’ be doing…

what I need is a little bit of that gritty stuff between my toes.
And some time with the birds.

I don’t know a whole lot about them, but I surely do love to watch them do their bird thing.

They know exactly what to do. And they know when to do it.
They don’t battle insecurity.
They don’t wonder if they’re living up to their potential.
They don’t try to be anything other than what they are.

They do what their Creator designed them to do.
Every moment. Of every day.

And they do it with beauty, grace, humor and a fair amount of noise.

And I LOVE IT.

Lord, help me to be exactly who you’ve made me to be. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And help me to do it with grit between my toes.

STOP

Writing time, exactly five minutes, including fixing two spelling errors.
Adding pictures? Well, a few more than five. :>)

Where the slough comes from the ocean.

The ‘big picture’ of the major sand bar, the eucalyptus grove, the Goleta hills behind.

A gathering of gulls, all facing into the warm sunlight.

Cormorants cooling it on some old pilings, watched over by a great blue heron.

A trio of pelicans, resting on a sand bar.

A great blue begins to circle around, seeking out his particular nest among the dozens of 100# twig collections in the tops of those trees.

The circle gets a little bigger…

…makes another loop…

…and then settles right in at home.

See that greater egret over there by the cliff? He’s my favorite.

Except maybe for this guy – a male red-breasted merganser.

But that tall one, back there in the shadows. He’s fascinating, don’t you think?

Now he steps forward, surrounded by black-winged stilt birds, with their knees all backwards. (Does the egret’s pose remind anyone of Steve Martin doing the Egyptian? Or are none of you old enough to remember that old act of his?)

Sort of a stately guy.

And I’m eternally grateful to him for flying, just for a moment.

And for staring at himself in the mirror…oh wait, I think he’s looking for lunch!

Yup, he’s goin’ for it!

And I watched a couple of stilts do a little doe-si-doe…

Shall we dance?

Nah – way too risky!

Got one shot with a full reflection – what a gorgeous creature.

Filed Under: biblical reflection, Lenten Journey, personal journey, Photo Essay, Wonderings in the Word

In Which I List the Ways That Pastoring is a Lot Like Mothering

February 6, 2012 By Diana

I didn’t ask to be a mom. I didn’t have to work too hard to become a mom, either – at least in the biological sense of that word.

Our first daughter arrived five days after my 23^rd birthday. I was 14,000 miles away from home and had no pre-natal care except the advice of experienced missionaries living nearby and the limited resources of a used gynecological textbook from some nursing curriculum somewhere. Yes, there was a doctor – and a good one – but he was stationed at a hospital 40 miles away, over a very corrugated dirt road; I saw him a total of three times before Lisa was born.

This is what I remember: all of a sudden, I was pregnant – and then, all of a sudden…I was a mother.

There she was, in all her amazing perfection and beauty. I had no parenting guides, no clue where to begin, so I just…began. By the time babies #2 and #3 came along, I was once again living in the land of high-tech hospitals, bookshelves lined with how-to manuals and more people willing to tell me what to do than I could count. But I continued as I had begun: I muddled through.

I made a lot of mistakes. I blew it with dreadfully predictable regularity. I yelled too much, relied on television too much, fed them food with too much sugar too often, dragged them around in cars without seat belts, much less car seats. And somehow, by the grace of a faithful God, they all lived to tell about it. Not only that, but they flourished – my myriad mistakes and all.

Sometimes they hated me – I know this because they told me so, one with alarming frequency. And sometimes, in and around adoring them with every fiber of my being, I hated them, too. That was only when I was exhausted, exasperated, confused or frightened, of course, but between those four emotional coordinates, I’d say that was more often than I’d like to admit. And I don’t REALLY mean I hated them – it was actually more like I hated what happened to me when I was trying my darnedest to be a ‘good mother’ to them and it all fell apart in my face.

When my youngest was a senior in high school, I went back to school – to seminary, actually. And by the time I began working in my profession, all my kids were married and I was a grandmother, on my way to eight grandkids. And guess what? I discovered that all that muddling through I did as a stay-at-home mom? Well, it came in mighty handy when trying to pastor a congregation of 350 highly individual individuals.

“How is that true, Diana?” you might ask. “What possible parallels can there be between parenting and pastoring? “ “Ah,” I would say right back to you, “Let me count the ways!”

1. Authenticity

Now here’s a paradoxical/oxymoronic statement for you to chew on as we begin this counting thing: Even when I haven’t known who I was, I have still managed to be the real me. From the time they were itty-bitty babies, I have talked to my kids like I talk to my friends like I talk to the people I meet almost anywhere. God has been in the process of forming me/shaping me/changing me – sometimes with a great deal of reluctance on my part – for a very long time now. Since I was about 11 years old, in fact, and went forward at a revival meeting in my home church in downtown Los Angeles. I’ve gotten detoured, lost, overwhelmed, discouraged and embarrassed multiple times along the way. But I’ve always been who I was at any moment in history – not any more than I was, but not any less, either. And I’ve always talked about the processing going on as honestly and openly as possible. For as long as I have known them, I have loved to be around my kids, loved to talk to them, to show them what’s going on in the world around them, to invite discovery, to laugh and to cry when things were appropriately wonderful or terrible. And while I did all that, I pretty much let it all hang out – the flaws, the overwhelm, the not knowing. Also, the thirst for knowledge, the eye for detail, the quick sense of humor, the willingness to work hard. What they saw was what they got.

2. Encouragement

I never had the looks or the coordination for the job, but I coulda been a GREAT cheerleader. I believe in encouragement as a force for world peace, reconciliation between warring tribes, the solution to global warming. I cannot think of a single negative thing that comes from encouraging someone else on their journey of life. Not one. I was a huge fan of each of my children – still am, as a matter of fact. They are, without a doubt, the most brilliant, kind, compassionate, creative, loving human persons who have ever graced the planet. Well, other than Jesus himself, of course. And their children are following right along in their parents’ footsteps. I believed in my kids, even when I didn’t know if that was the smartest row to hoe or not. They were not perfect – but then, neither am I, neither is their dad. But those kids came dang close, I’ll tell you. And when they had a down day, I was there to tell them it would look better in the morning. And generally, it did. It really did. Encouragement is the name of the game. And I think the apostle Paul – and yes, Jesus himself – would agree with me on that one.

3. Nurturing

At the risk of sounding like a particularly sappy Hallmark card, this is what’s at the heart of mothering, is it not? Protecting those chicks, even when they’re bigger than you are. Providing a safe haven, a cozy nest. Paying enough attention to know when they need a ‘mental health’ day off from school but not so much attention that they feel suffocated. Packing lunches (or double-checking the cash reserves for the cafeteria); baking birthday cakes (or buying exactly the right kind at the corner bakery); knowing what they like and what they don’t like – for dinner, in their closet, coming out of your mouth; knowing who their friends are, praying for friends if they don’t have any (or if you think they need a little broader selection). Paying attention and being there – pretty much sums it up.

4. Listening

I’ve already mentioned that I spent a lot of time talking to my children when they were young. But I spent a lot, a lot, a LOT of time listening to them as they got bigger. Some of my kids were better talkers than others. The one who is male clammed up at about age 12 and I had to carefully figure out ways to continue the conversation. This is what I discovered: if we were in the car, where we did not have to make eye contact, my son would open up like he used to before the hormones began flooding his lanky frame. (In two years, he grew ten inches and gained about fifty pounds of big bones and solid muscle). Sometimes I didn’t like what I heard, but I kept on listening, trying not to react, cringe, frown or otherwise shut down the flow. Making space for the other person to talk, even if that talk is painful confession or emotional outburst, is really a requirement for any kind of meaningful human relationship, don’t you think?

5. Teaching

This might seem to be the facet of mothering with the most direct carry-over into the pastoral life, and in some ways that is definitely true. But maybe not in exactly the ways you might imagine. From the time my kids were about 18 months old, I invited them to make choices about their lives, starting with the small stuff. What would you like to wear today? I’d ask. And that made for some fascinating fashion statements at times. As they got bigger, I’d gently comment that maybe we could choose pants OR the skirt, or perhaps both of those busy prints might look more restful if they weren’t worn together. But initially, they wore what they wanted, even if people thought I’d pulled their outfits out of a dumpster somewhere. And I applied that principle across the board. The encyclopedia, the dictionary, the daily newspaper, the Bible – all of these became rich resources in my efforts to help them become their own persons, with their own ideas. If I knew something about a topic they were interested in, I talked about it or I showed them how to do it for themselves. They all got reasonably good at doing laundry, cooking a basic meal (although I was never a good cook and they are all far better at it than I ever was), doing basic household chores. They also learned how to read and to write critically and well, how to wrestle through hard ideas and issues and how to take care of one another. You know, the basics – the essential skills needed to live life in a sometimes crazy world.

6. Releasing

This was the hardest part of mothering for me, bar none: letting them go. And I had to begin doing that when my eldest was a lot younger than I wished. She got married when she was 19 and she basically shifted her primary focus to the man she married when she was just a slip of a girl at 16. The Lord and I wrestled hard about all of this for each of those three years and I continued to wrestle with it for a lot of years after she was married and gone. I had never asked to become a mother, but once I was one? It became my primary identity and mission in life. I loved every thing about it, even the hard and ugly stuff. But what I learned during those years of wrestling was this so-important truth: my children were not mine. They were entrusted to my care, they were among the greatest of God’s gifts to me, but they did not belong to me. They were their own unique selves, gifted and shaped not to become mini-me’s but to become Lisa, Joy and Eric. And for that to happen, I had to do a whole lot of work up front and then get my mucky hands off. I had to stand back and watch them move out into the world all on their own. They made mistakes, they fell down – hard, sometimes – but oh my, what magnificent people they are! Each one of them an individual of irreplaceable giftedness, heart and finely crafted personality.

I’m not sure if what I’ve written here exactly fits into the category of ‘practices of parenting.” Nevertheless, I am contributing them to Sarah Styles Bessey’s Blog Carnival of ideas and suggestions. She’s issued a wonderfully warm invitation and many of us are joining the party. Come on over to her place and check them all out. I will also add this one to the new meme forming to help cover the absence of Emily Wierenga for a while. I’ve done her “Imperfect Prose” for almost a year now and so enjoy the company of that place. But Emily’s life is over full just now, so Kim at “Journey to Epiphany” has stepped in with a temporary community gathering space called, “Painting Prose.” Thanks, Kim!

Filed Under: family, Marriage, memoir, personal journey

I Do: Long-Term Love

February 6, 2012 By Diana

He comes in regularly and stirs the fire.

And every single time,

I am struck with gratitude and wonder

that we chose each other so many years ago.

It’s such a simple thing, stirring those logs around,

just a few moments of time.

But I know this – it is an act of love, this fire-tending,

an act I deeply appreciate.

An act that is emblematic,

representing the story of who we are somehow.

Not all of who we are,

but kind of a meta-picture,

a summary statement.

Because the truth of our story is this:

we grew up together.

We were so young, you see.

When we met, I was seventeen, he was barely twenty.

When we married, I was the 20-year-old,

mid-way through my senior year at UCLA.

That summer, we moved to Zambia for two years,

traveling by freighter over a choppy Atlantic Ocean

for eighteen long days.

The sunsets were glorious;

the storms terrifying.

Not a bad description of the next 25 years or so, actually.

We had so much to learn – beginning with ourselves.

Raised in ‘traditional’ 1950’s Christian homes,

we had a whole lot of firmly held opinions

about what marriage and family should look like

and we did our darnedest to live up those.

I put together our wedding liturgy (I loved liturgy, even then),

and I searched for the old wording to be sure and include the word ‘obey’ in my vows. Those who know me at this end of the last 46 years

might be surprised by that small piece of trivia.

But they would probably not be terribly surprised to learn that it was my husband who first chafed at the thinking behind it,

that it was he who began to call out my gifts as a teacher and leader.

I was too frightened at the prospect of ‘messing up’ my marriage

to go there for a very long time.

Together, we’ve changed up the dance,

trading places – both literally and figuratively – as time and circumstance demanded.

We’ve hit a few rough patches along the way, that’s for sure.

We went to a counselor for a while at about year 25,

when I was in the midst of seminary and carrying a couple of part time jobs and we both felt confused and angry and badly disconnected.

The best thing that came of that experience? The last twenty years.

Somewhere during that time of counseling,

we looked at each other and said,

“We’ve got a good thing going here; let’s make it better.”

And, by God’s grace, we have.

We are very different people – different politics, different temperaments, different favorite-times-of-the-day, different tastes in television

(except for Downton Abbey!).

And guess what?

We are never bored.

Yes, we can get snarly sometimes.

We can get our feelings hurt and our feathers ruffled.

But we make each other laugh louder than anyone else we know.

We have spent so much time together that we seldom have to guess

what the other is thinking.

We each think the other is the finest person on the planet.

We adore our children and our grandchildren.

We are committed to faith and family above all else.

And most of the time,

we really, really like each other.

We’re even learning to do this thing called retirement,

which for a couple with very busy schedules

for very many years, was a somewhat daunting prospect.

While I was pastoring, my husband was commuting

for three-day stretches away from me every week while he continued to work in southern CA.

During those mid-week days, I grew to understand the deep dividends of solitude.

For the first time in my life, I was spending time alone –
and I was loving it.

How would we manage being together 24/7?

Well, one way is this:

in the evenings, he watches sports in the family room;

I write in the bedroom.

And during the winter months,

he builds me a lovely fire in our bedroom fireplace.

About every 90 minutes or so, I hear him coming down the hall,

to peek in and make sure

that fire is performing as a properly built fire should perform.

And that small act tells me what I most deeply need to know:

my husband values who I am and what I do.

In this quieter season of our life together,

it’s an echo of sorts,

an echo of what he said to me when it began to look like we’d be moving to Santa Barbara so that I could take a job.

“Honey, for the last 30 years, you’ve built your life around my career choices. You’ve supported me through all the twists and turns my professional life has taken. Now, it’s my turn to adjust, to let you flourish and grow and become more of who God designed you to be, just like you’ve always done for me.”

He values who I am.

He values what I do.

I value who he is.

I value what he does.

Even now, we want

to keep learning, keep growing,

keep leaning into Jesus and one another.

We want the fire to burn bright,

so we’ll keep tending,

keep stirring,

keep enjoying the light, the warmth, the beauty.

Even when he’s in one room,

and I’m in another.

This essay was written at the invitation of Jennifer Dukes Lee and The High Calling. I am joining the community writing project at THC by signing on with Jennifer’s weekly meme. Ann Voskamp is also encouraging essays about love this month, so I’ll put it there as well. And with all the sisters at Jen Ferguson’s place, the soli deo sisterhood. And, at the end of the week, with Bonnie’s discussion on Love Unwrapped.

Filed Under: family, Marriage, memoir, personal journey

Five Minute Friday: Awake…Oh, Really??

January 14, 2012 By Diana

There was this one morning, when I did manage to lunge my way out from under the covers to get my anxious husband to the airport for an early flight. And I was amazingly surprised on this ONE day to note that the sun rises over the ocean on our peculiar peninsula at certain times of the year.
And I got to see the fishing fleet set off for the day.

Yes, it was truly lovely.

No, I did not do it again.

The single most difficult thing I do every day

is get out of bed.

Yes, it’s true.

I am not a morning person.

No, I am not.

Not. At. All.

I struggle to see past the end of my nose.

I resist the sunlight, pouring through the transom window.

I resent the cheeriness of my partner for the last 46 years.

He is fully awake,

ready for the day,

bounding out of bed,

full speed ahead.

I am putt-putting in his wake.

If it’s a really good day, I get to stay in bed for another hour or so after he has made his wide-awake presence known.

And I am quite happy to let him make his own oatmeal

(which he does every single day),

to vaguely listen to him jostle the dishes in the sink,

to turn over and move right back into dreamland,

thank you very much.

It takes me a while to be fully awake,

even after I’m out of the bed.

I hem and haw and shuffle and mutter

and gradually make my way past the bathroom

into the closet and then out into the daylight.

But I’m not a happy camper.

No, I am not.

By about 10:00 a.m., I’m polite.

By noon, I’m downright gregarious.

And by 9:00 p.m. – I’ve had a second wind,

ready to read or write or watch TV or engage conversation.

And my partner?

Sawing logs.

Yes, he is.

Sigh.

Back with Lisa-Jo this week for her 5 minute prompt, which today was the word AWAKE.

Check out some of the other contributions – they’re always fun to read.
She encourages us to write for 5 minutes flat without worrying about whether it’s right or not – no editing of any kind.

But this week, I will admit to some formatting after the 5 minute bell. Other than that – this one was a breeze. It’s the story of my life. Even when my kids were little, I struggled with mornings. I got up, I did what I was supposed to do. But I was semi-conscious most of the time. I had a small floral business for a while and that meant I had to get up really early to get to the flower mart on a wedding/party weekend. And I always enjoyed that weird, upside-down world of activity in downtown Los Angeles – at 4:00 a.m.! But I was quite happy to give up my re-sale number after daughter number two got married, nearly 18 years ago.

Filed Under: personal journey, Wonderings in the World