Wonderings in the Word

The Primary Verb: FOLLOW

January 20, 2012 By Diana

Maybe it started with … Abraham,

following the call of a God he barely knew,

a Voice in his ear,

in his heart.

Or maybe it was Jacob?

Finagling his way to a birthright,

following the north-eastern road to find safe harbor,

and discovering the God he never knew,

the One who was in ‘this place.’

And then there was Joseph.

And Joseph didn’t exactly ‘follow,’

or did he?

Forced into Egyptian slavery,

yet … always hearing,

always listening,

always hoping.

Always following.

Moses followed the Voice, too.

The Israelites followed the Cloud and the Pillar of Fire.

Sometimes.

It was hit and miss most of the time, actually;

the judges, the kings, the priests, the prophets.

Sometimes staying on the path;

sometimes not so much.

The magi followed the star,

Joseph followed the dreams,

Mary followed the promise.

And thirty years later, Jesus went on the road.

And over and over and over again,

he used one single verb:

follow.

Follow me, to be exact.

That verb came first; it came before

believe,

obey,

live,

love.

Follow.

At the heart of discipleship is this word,

this verb which comes from the root ‘to hear.’

This is the ‘essence of discipleship,’

our pastor said.

And I think he’s right.

But here’s something else I think:

it’s a really, really tough gig.

Because, see, I want to follow.

Yes, I do.

I want to follow Jesus, no matter what,

no matter where.

But then…I see a promising rabbit trail,

that one over there that says,

“Let’s Keep It Safe.”

Or the one that takes me to a box,

a nice big one,

with square corners,

and clear borders.

Borders that are not terribly permeable.

This box keeps Jesus neatly within my

particular worldview,

removing the uncomfortable bits,

the tough stuff.

Like denying myself,

or taking up that cross.

Or selling all and giving it away.

Or becoming like a child.

If I can just keep Jesus inside,

where we can have tea once a day,

and talk about life –

well, that’s the kind of following that seems doable.

There’s another route I could choose, too.

In fact, I too often do.

I truly do follow Jesus,

right down the path.

But I sorta stop part way.

I take a pit stop,

right there in that part of the path

where it’s just the two of us,

spending quality time together.

And that’s the true path,

the good path.

But it isn’t the whole path.

When I keep it close like that,

when I make it only about Jesus and me,

that’s when I am most apt to

miss the adventure,

to miss the abundant life Jesus promised.

So here’s to taking a bigger risk,

to letting go of that overwhelming need to be safe,

to breaking through the edges of the box,

to reaching out

as well as going deep.

Do I want to be a real disciple?

Or not?

Signing on with Michelle, Jennifer, Jennifer, Ann and Emily tonight.

Filed Under: Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

My new friend Joe Bunting has this amazing website called “The Write Practice.” On it, he offers advice, writes lovely essays himself, and provides interesting prompts for 15 minutes of reflective writing. This weekend he had a doozy, generating more than 70 comments and lots of interesting response. It’s about inspiration vs. perspiration – check it out and play along. I don’t do what Joe suggested we do – jot things down in a notebook for future inspiration AND perspiration. But I did the next best thing. I just wrote for 15 minutes about the events of an ordinary Saturday. But….BUT the ending to that ordinary day was something else. And the photos that you see sprinkled throughout these words give only partial testimony to the extraordinariness of the evening. So…an ordinary day…lit by an extraordinary bit of central California coastal glory.

She sits and looks at me across the scones and tea. Tired and sad, the tears begin to gather, the jaw line begins to tense, the fingers curl.

A friend has asked for a meeting, for a listening ear, a word of encouragement.

She waits, trying to control the barrage of emotions that are washing through her as she speaks. Some are triggered by memories older than she is; some come from pieces of her own story, long before these events; some are as fresh as today’s coffee, the scent of which is filling this public space.

I try to listen and to speak carefully, gently asking questions when I need to, offering words of comfort, making one or two suggestions.

We spend about 70 minutes together, sipping tea, wiping tears, sharing stories. I bless her at the end of our time. I bless her with the words of Aaron and I hold her hands and cry out silently from deep inside myself; I cry out the ancient words of the blind man by the side of the road, the words of the leper on the way, the words of the woman who grabbed the hem of his garment. I cry out to the God who made us both: Have mercy, Lord. Have mercy.

Then I drive across town. Through the traffic, the road work, the line-up for the downtown farmer’s market, the red lights and the green ones. I pull into the underground parking, find a place to park and ride the elevator up to the first floor to look at shoes.

Shoes.

The bane of my existence.

Nothing fits. Nothing is comfortable. Nothing ever works.

But today, I find some fur-lined clogs that are PERFECT. And I stride upstairs, able to walk in something other than Asics running shoes for the first time in several weeks. Triumph!

There’s a baby shower this afternoon – a last-minute invitation that was a bit awkward. As the former (now retired) associate pastor, people are often a bit uncertain. Should we or shouldn’t we? This mother-in-law decided to go for it and I am happy to be included.

And I love shopping for baby things. Yes, I do. I’m not ashamed to admit it – I love it. So I pick up several adorable tiny things for this little-girl-to-be and leave them to be wrapped while I walk across the third floor to the restaurant.

Lunch. That’s exactly what I need! A salad, a tall, cool glass of water, a Cookie Royale. Sigh. I spread out the paperwork I’ve printed and look at all the possible writing assignments I can sign onto for this month. One deadline is past – that one is shoved aside. One is due within the week. Maybe. One the 31st of this month – definitely. And one the 20th of next month. Absolutely. Now I have a little direction for this writing part of my life. The salad tastes better because I did this small bit of sorting first. And the cookie – well. The best cookie ever baked, that’s all there is to it.

But as I look around me, I see something that makes my own eyes well up this winter Saturday. There is a table, just to my right, with three women at it – three generations of women, actually. A white-haired older woman – attractive, convivial, engaged; a brown-haired woman of middle age – listening to the older woman attentively; a 20-something, head moving between the two older women, shifting from one end of the conversation to another, taking a bite of lunch, pausing, pushing back the hair from the side of her face.

That was my life just about 18 months ago. My mother was stronger, saner, her beautiful, vivacious self. I and one or the other of my daughters would sit together with her, enjoying a meal or a story, listening and learning. That part of my life appears to be slipping away, along with large chunks of my mother’s mind. I miss that life.

I miss her.

A quick trip home, some furious computer work for my husband, then on to the baby shower. Always nervous entering a room full of women, I load my plate too heavily, find a place in the corner and sit and watch for a while. Again, I am struck by the connections across the generations. The women in this room range from early 20’s to late 60’s. They have gathered from near and far to offer gifts to a newly forming female child, to shower love on someone they have yet to meet.

So, I forcibly relegate the rising tide of inadequacy, timidity, and wondering-if-I-will-ever-really-belong-anywhere feelings to the room called ‘pointless noise’ in my brain. Instead, I choose to think about the blessing. The gift that is womanhood, the privilege of being a mother or an aunt or a grandmom, the joys of shared stories, shared experiences, mutual memories. And I offer up a breath of thanks for it all – the chatter, the scent of tea, the savory and the sweet on my plate, the love offerings wrapped in pink.

As I leave, the sun is beginning to color the sky. The mission is nearby, so I swing by there, struck by the clear view of the channel and the outlying islands. I grab my camera, swing into a parking spot and stand on the Old Mission steps just as mass is over. Snap. Snap. Gasp.

Then I race across town, down through the ravine to the state beach. Too late for the most dramatic of the evening’s color, the view is still breathtaking. University Point to my right, Santa Cruz Island to my left, the huge expanse of Hendry’s Beach in front of me.

And suddenly my ordinary Saturday is anything but. Rose and gold on the water, twinkling lights in the distance, stripes of sky and sea and sand, piled on top of one another like a horizontal crazy quilt, as the crisp winter wind reminds me to breathe out. Glory be.

And Hallelujah.

Added on a couple of photos of the winter flora at the Old Mission, viewed in the fading light – just because I felt like it. Joining these meanderings with Laura B and LL B for their weekly memes at “The Wellspring” and “Seedlings in Stone,” respectively. And also with Heather at “The Extraordinary Ordinary,” and her invitation to JustWrite:

Filed Under: Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

It’s Time…the Water Is Ready

January 12, 2012 By Diana

What is it about water?

The Book we read is literally swimming in it.

The waters of chaos,

out of which the Lord God creates.

Waters flooding the earth,

to wash it clean from the evil wrought by humankind.

Rebekah watering the camels of a traveling servant,

leading to the foundation of the people of Israel.

River water as the salvation for the baby-in-the-ark,

the one who grew up to become

the bearer of the rod,

the rod that brought water to its feet

in the parting of the Sea of Reeds,

and brought water from the rock

for a thirsty, complaining people.

The Promised Land,

a place fed by streams and

pools and springs abundant.

The Jordan River –

the headwaters into which the people of Israel

carry the Ark of the Covenant,

and stack the stones of remembrance.

The Jordan –

through which and by which the

Baptizer offers his call to repentance

and shouts out the promise of One Who Is to Come.

The Jordan –

into which steps Jesus, the Messiah,

submitting himself to the same waters of repentance

as every other respondent to John’s call.

The Baptism of Our Lord –

one of the layered meanings and celebrations

marked with the name Epiphany:

revelation.

The light dawns,

the promise is fulfilled,

God comes to the help of God’s people.

Descending under the flow,

rising up through the surface,

glistening in the afternoon sun,

shaking the drops from hair and beard,

gasping for air, arms outstretched,

the Savior, our Immanuel, hears a voice

and the dove descends.

It is time.

No trumpets, no angels, no drum roll.

A simple walk from the shore to the river.

And the mission is launched.

What does Jesus hear as he steps out of the crowd,

out of obscurity,

out of preparation time

into the arena, ready for the main event?

What does he hear?

And what do we need to hear as well?

Three things – three things as vitally important

as the water itself to the life he – and we – are to lead:

He hears who he is.

He hears he is loved.

He hears he is pleasing.

Because of Jesus, we also have:

a new identity;

a powerful and life-changing relationship of love;

a deep-seated knowledge that

God is pleased with us,

before we do one single thing.

Do we get that??

God is pleased with us.

Because of Jesus.

And it is in the water,

the waters of our own baptism,

that we know these things to be true.

Water.

Simple. Ordinary.

Tangible. Irreplaceable.

And absolutely vital.

The Living Water calls us to reflect who he is,

he calls us to be life,

to share live,

to live life

as if Jesus himself is the well.

Oh, how deeply can I draw from this Well as 2012 unfolds?

How widely can I spray this essence of life around me?

What time is it for me?

What time is it for you?

I am indebted to Pastor Don Johnson and the worship team at Montecito Covenant Church for most of the ideas contained in this reflection and most particularly for the beauty of a worship service in which we are given the precious opportunity to renew our baptismal vows. Swishing our hands in the waters of the font, singing, “All Who Are Thirsty,” every New Year, we remember again WHO WE ARE. Thanks be to God.

Joining with lots of friends today as I’ve been away from this blog for over a week, traveling to get my mom moved and then re-settling at home with a too-full calendar. So tonight, I’m fixin’ to join with Michelle, Jen, Emily (if she’s open for business again), Ann, Jennifer & Bonnie. Each of these lovely sites has great writing going on – check them out.

Filed Under: biblical study, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

One Word: Waiting

January 2, 2012 By Diana

Joining the crowd growing at Alece’s place – choosing one word for 2012 – a word that will shape decisions, influence thinking, guide us into God’s presence with greater intentionality during the year ahead. And also joining with Bonnie over at The Faith Barista for her invitation at the Thursday jam session.

This choice was a tough one for me, primarily because I am by nature not a patient person. But here it is:

WAITING

Not because I want to.

Heaven knows I’m not good at it.

But because it is absolutely

central

to what it means to be

a follower after Jesus,

one who is invited

into the fellowship of

our Trinitarian God.

So.

I am waiting.

Waiting with hope.

With expectancy.

With trust.

At least that’s what I’m asking for

as I wait.

That I might be able to say with Simeon,

“NOW, O Lord, let your servant depart in peace.

For my eyes have seen your salvation…”

Not that I’m in a great big hurry to go anywhere,

not even to heaven,

truth be told.

But because the beauty of Simeon’s character

just shimmers through every word of that verse in Luke 2.

I’d like to shine like that.

And I’m guessing that learning about

waiting

is how to pick up a glimmer or two,

here and there.

I have no clue how God will use this word,

this experience,

to form me,

to buff up the shine,

to build in me a clearer reflection

of the LIGHT.

But I’m willing to lean into it

with all I’ve got.

To consistently make an effort to take my hands off

the reins of my life,

and the lives of the people I love,

and to trust that all will be well.

Even if it doesn’t turn out like I expect.

Even if it doesn’t turn out like I hope.

Even if it doesn’t turn out at all.

Because I think that’s a big part of trust, don’t you?

Turning our hands upward,

empty,

and saying,

“Thy will be done.

Thy will be done.”

And I don’t think that can happen if I am

striving,

pushing,

driving,

insisting,

worrying,

obsessing,

fretting,

otherwise trying to control things

over which I truly have no power.

I do think it might happen if I can learn more about

waiting.

So that’s my word for 2012.

Every three months or so, I’ll try and post here about how it’s going, what I’m learning, where Life is taking me.

If you need me,

I’ll be here.

Waiting.

Filed Under: personal journey, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

Christmas Reflections

December 27, 2011 By Diana

The church is full on Christmas Eve. Elbow to elbow, friends and family nudge in to make space for late-comers. A trio of angels surround the Advent candle circle, gleaming in the soft light of early evening.

In a lovely piece of encircling grace, the same family whom I wrote about way back when lit the Christ candle for this first Christmas Eve service in 20+ years where I have no role to play. That year they were new to our community. This year, he is the new associate pastor and his little ones are almost all grown up.

That final singing of “Silent Night” is always moving to me, watching the light spread throughout the room, reminding me

each time that the smallest candle can light the way. Just the smallest of flame, in a sea of darkness.

The next day, I watch from the kitchen as the morning sun lights up the soft honeyed-hues of the hardwood floor, bouncing off the ornaments on our fully-loaded tree. Just three of us for Christmas breakfast – my husband, my mother and me.

She comes to the table shivering a little bit – she always shivers when she comes here, even if it’s August – because at 90, she is always cold. But we’ve turned on the small gas fireplace near the breakfast table and she soon warms enough to smile and sit down to eat.

I’ve made pumpkin waffles – made them on her small waffle maker which I just moved from her house to mine. She is nearly blind, needs hearing aids, and is so forgetful that cooking is getting to be hazardous, so we’re moving her into an assisted living apartment the first week of 2012.

To see her like this causes me physical pain. Always bright, charming, funny, beautiful, my mother is now a worried, frail, confused old woman. And she knows it. She is frightened by it and frequently in tears.

But breakfast is good – she eats 4 squares of waffle, adding whipped cream and fresh berries to a couple of them, and seems quite content. This is the most she has eaten in several days and it gives me a strange feeling of comfort to be able to give her something that suits her, that makes her want more.

There isn’t much room for ‘more’ in her life just now. She can barely manage what is. In fact, the tension surrounding this move has made every symptom worse and I wonder – will settling into this new space bring improvement? Stability? Less worry for me and less fear for her?

We spend much of Christmas day doing quiet things – napping for mom, computer work for me. I open the back gate so that she can go out and wish my brother a Merry Christmas. My youngest brother, the one who died two years ago and whose ashes are buried beneath a fledgling oak in our side yard. My brother who had no life when he died – housed in a sober living residence, loving AA, dealing with a severely damaged heart. He died in his sleep one early October morning and my mother has not been the same since that hard day.
We drive to my daughter’s home in the late afternoon sunlight, admiring the crystal clear view of the Channel Islands as we cruise down the 101. It’s beautiful out there, and beauty brings its own kind of comfort, reminders of goodness and life and Something/Someone bigger than we are.

The children are wild and wonderful when we arrive – glad to see us, making us feel welcome and loved. My small mom, who had dissolved in tears almost immediately after speaking with my remaining brother by phone earlier that afternoon – she breaks out in a sunny smile, clapping her hands to see the energy and liveliness of my grandchildren as they play together.
After the food, after the crazy-making ripping through paper and ribbon and box and bag, we all help mom out to the car that will carry her home through the night. She has trouble navigating the uneven flagstone walkway, so a son and a son-in-law both offer cell phone flashlights, I offer a strong arm, my husband goes ahead to open car doors. I help her up into her seat – she is shivering again in the frosty night air – and I buckle her seat belt. There. She is safely stowed for the last leg of this long weekend journey.
But really, is my mother safe? No, I don’t think so. There is nothing safe about the fragility of her life, there is nothing safe about slowly coming unraveled, there is nothing safe about losing yourself, piece by agonizing piece.

“God alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress where I will never be shaken,” the psalmist sings out.

Perhaps there is safety there. Yes, I will choose to believe that. In every way that truly counts, my mother is safe, she will never be shaken.

Even when she stumbles, even when the tears come, even when she forgets who I am, even when she forgets who she is.

Even then.

Even then…

I am more thankful than I can possibly put into words to be heading out of town for four days with my husband and our oldest daughter and her family. We need a spell away from these concerns that hang heavy so much of the time. I may find time to write while we’re gone and I may not. We’re bringing some projects to work on – I got a new scanner for Christmas and my eldest grandson is going to help me figure out how to use it. Because, you see, I have literally THOUSANDS of old photos/negatives/slides that need to be digitized and stored. And we’re bringing some watercolor supplies. Dick and I don’t ‘do’ art, but Lisa and her crew? They’re all gifted and love to spend time just dinking around with simple instructions and basic art supplies. So we’ll try it – maybe we’ll like it! I am posting this today with quite a list of friends because I don’t know when I’ll post again this week. And then the next week, I move my mom. So, those of you who know me enough to pray for me, I’d appreciate your thoughts over these days, both the restful ones and the stressful ones. I will, as always, carry you with me as I go.

Filed Under: Christmas, family, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

Wondering at Christmas

December 23, 2011 By Diana

For the last several months, I’ve had the pleasure and the privilege of connecting with a smaller circle of bloggers through the kind invitation of Seth Haines, over at his Collective blog. Anyone who subscribes to his blog by email is invited to write about their own journey in an email round-up each month. I gotta tell you, there is some wonderful stuff offered in that space. Seth and his wife Amber are both wonderful writers, showing up all over the place, at A Deeper Story and (in)Courage and I am grateful for their kindness to me each month. I went back in and read what I added for December and thought I’d put a piece of it out in this place, just for the heck of it. I liked what I wrote, and I don’t always. So I offer it, with a few tweaks, as a very small Christmas gift to you tonight. This month, we were invited to write about our experience of Advent in 2011, and this was written before I made the trip south to pack things for my mom.

Wondering. That’s what I’m doing a lot of this Advent.

In both senses of that word.

I am wondering how to help my failing mama make a move to assisted living. The physical part is easy – I’ll travel 250 miles round trip this week, spend three days and clear out her cupboards and closets. Her apartment is small, her possessions few. I can do this part. The emotional part? That’s a lot tougher. Finding that inner centered place of calm and quiet, speaking words of peace and comfort from that place, not giving in to either frustration or sorrow. That takes intentionality, that takes care. I’m praying both will appear in abundance over the next three weeks.

I am wondering about other family members who are facing into difficult decisions in weeks ahead, people I love and admire, some of them Jesus followers, some of them not. How can I help? How can I listen?

I am wondering about how to more fully live into whatever ‘retirement’ means – to write good words, to listen well to directees and to the Spirit, to be present for my family, to carve out sufficient time and space for my own inner health.

BUT…but…

I am also wondering at the immensity of God’s love and the scandal of his Grand Plan.

I am wondering at the quietness of a starry night, at the obedience of gnarly shepherds and foreign kings, at the day-by-day, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other faith of a small-town carpenter and a teenaged girl, great with child.

I am wondering at the singing sky, the celestial company who ring out words of peace and comfort, the messengers of God who serve as sentinels for GLORY.

I am wondering how to receive this infant king, this One who comes in the way that each of us comes – bursting forth from the cocoon of pulsing blood and salty water into the harshness of cold air, pungent with the scent of life-on-earth.

How can I embrace this One who embraces me and all of life?

How can I say, ‘Welcome,’ and ‘Thank you,’ and ‘Bless me, O Lord, for I have sinned’ to One so small, so innocent, so vulnerable?

I am wondering if I can make space inside my heart-of-hearts for a baby’s bed, clean and comfy, well-lit and protected, welcoming and warm. I do so want to do that, just that.

Even so, come Lord Jesus. Come.

Merry Christmas, everyone! May the WONDER of the Story brighten your day and the year ahead.

Filed Under: Christmas, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

And on a lighter note…Advent Four: Christmas Pageant!

December 20, 2011 By Diana

It had been a rugged few days and we were bone tired.

An easy 300+ miles on the car;

four nights in a bed not our own;

days spent dealing with a weeping and worried aging mom,

packing and schlepping and packing some more.

But the last Sunday in Advent dawned crisp and cool,

our daughter’s warm hospitality had soothed our frayed nerves, and three of our grandsons were going to participate in their church’s annual Christmas Pageant.

We got there early, and caught a glimpse of the beautiful set created by a team of church members.

Oooh, it was going to a great morning!

And we even managed to catch a glimpse of angels

eating snacks. Who knew they liked grapes?

Grandson #3 enjoyed them!

And grandson #1 got ready to play in the band – drums and keyboard.

The story unfolded as Gabriel made an appearance in a cleverly-concealed-by-shifting-clouds hole-in-the-sky,

announcing the arrival of the Messiah to Mary. (complete with British accent!)

The shepherds arrived en masse, along with a few very adorable sheep.

And the adults joined the Grace Notes children’s choir for a lovely “Angels’ Song.”

Grandson #2 is in the middle here. I love how he is sandwiched between someone older and someone younger, all joining their voices to sing praise to God.

The star in the east appeared – and disappeared – at various points during the morning.

Colby read his part of the narrative masterfully.

And a lonely shepherd (note his non-desert footwear) stood watch outside the town of Bethlehem.

Where he was soon joined by an interesting assortment of wise men, one of them in gold tights (I kid you not), all of them arguing about whose turn it was to watch for the star and who was bringing the gold.

Finally, they all found the manger and the baby, and Joseph and Mary sang a lovely duet. What? You don’t remember that from Luke 2??

And our littlest angel watched quietly from the sidelines.

Loved watching this older angel try and find a comfortable position for his gangly self. Somehow his thoughtful expression reminded me of Rodin’s Thinker!

Before we knew it, the kids had sung a rousing chorus of “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” inviting us all to join in at the end, and the benediction had been offered.

The remains of the day

found themselves in piles across the front of the sanctuary, ready to be returned to the church from which they had been borrowed.

Shepherds garb,

angels’ wings,

royal gifts,

and little lambs, all in a row (joined by the sparklingest pair of pink books I’ve ever seen!).

Only one light left gleaming in the little town, soon to be put away for next year. Sigh.

After it was all over, our 13-year-old consented to one photo. So serious! He is now taller than I am at 5’11” and an interesting and thoughtful young man.

And he looks so much like our girl (who is his mother) that it sometimes causes us both to look twice.

As we filed out of the sanctuary, filled with the sweetness of the story and the wonder of it all, we noticed the doors at the end of the center aisle. We’ve visited this church a half dozen times and never seen these beautiful wood carvings. The one pictured above is perfect for this particular Sunday in the church year and the other one is of the Good Shepherd with his sheep. Somehow, it felt right to see this picture of the grown-up Babe of Bethlehem, welcoming the children.

For aren’t we all children, even those of us grown old and weary? In fact, if we can stay in touch with that child within, we’re far more likely to experience the power of the story.
If we can see ourselves there, standing with the shepherds, singing with the angels, traveling with the magi – then the story can become part of us.
For it’s this story that tells us, isn’t it?
Oh, that we might all have the eyes of children,
to truly see the wonder that is Christmas,
the glory that is encased in the flesh of that small babe,
the one who grew to welcome children
and to encourage us to be like them.
Merry Christmas, one and all!

This one goes over to L.L’s place and Laura Boggess’s Playdates with God – because really, that’s what it’s about:

Filed Under: Advent, family, Wonderings in the Word

A Strange Advent

December 20, 2011 By Diana

Life feels so strange just now:
delicate and ponderous,
uncertain and pre-determined,
incomplete, uncomfortable, gaping open,
like a sweater that no longer fits.

She asks the same questions,
over and over and over again.
She worries over the cost,
she wonders what will become of her,
she sobs at her helplessness.

Everything is shifting,
the child becomes the parent,
the parent, a child.
Groping in the dark, she becomes
the fulfillment of the Carpenter’s
long-ago warning:
“…when you were younger
you dressed yourself
and went where you wanted,
but when you are old
you will stretch out your hands
and someone else will dress you
and lead you where
you do not want to go.”

And I am the one in the lead.

I do not like it very much.
No, I do not like it at all.

Kyrie eleison.
Christe eleison.
Kyrie eleison.

The heavily pregnant Mary has been wandering the curving road to the House of Bread, Bethlehem. And she is almost there. We have been moving the candle each night that we’ve been home, moving it along the wooden spiral created by Caleb Voskamp at the tender age of 15. And we have been reading from Katharine Johnson’s lovely Jesse tree devotional, using icons her 14-year-old daughter painted. And weaving in and around these lovely pieces of young art has been the sad story of my aged mother’s move to assisted living, a move made necessary by blindness and memory loss.

And this is the cycle of life, isn’t it? We all grow old, all of us who were once young. We grow old. And we die. Some of us die relatively quickly; some of us take a long time. But each journey is fraught with uncertainty, with fear, with loss and with difficult decisions.

I think maybe the story we tell during each Advent season can bless us on this journey of aging. If we let it. The mother of Jesus was young, very young. And her world was turned upside down by events she neither planned nor expected. Scripture tells us that she said ‘yes’ to the unexpectedness of it all, that she said, “Let it be.” “Let it be to me according to your word.”

And Joseph did the same. He folded Mary in on the strength of a dream, he took on her shame, he took on her boy. He, too, said, “Let it be.”

And the two of them together, they took that curving road to the House of Bread. They found their way to an inhospitable and unwanted ‘home’ for the night. They spilled their tears and their blood on the ground of that dark cave so that Jesus, Emmanuel, might be birthed into our world. Together, they said, “Let it be.”

And they did it without knowing what they were doing, as all of us who take on the task of parenting do. We do not see into the future, we cannot know the pain, or the joy, that will come with the years.

But we can say, and we can live, this truth: “Let it be.”

We can take it all, the love and the laughter, the anger and the tears; the hopes and dreams and the harsh realities and stern wake-up calls; the energy of youth and the exhaustion of old age; the promise of life and the sober questions about death – we can take it all firmly in hand, receiving each piece as gift, and we can say: “LET IT BE.”

According to your word. According to your word.

I write tonight with a mixture of both sadness and of gratitude. I am grateful for the family I was born into, for my father’s passion for music and learning and family; for my mother’s graciousness, hospitality, great good humor and sharp mind; for my brother Tom’s keen wit, kindness, loyalty and tenderness; for my brother Ken’s sweetness despite a lifetime of heartache. My father has been gone for almost seven years now; my brother Ken for two. My mom is moving closer to the end of life (aren’t we all?) and Tom and I are each dealing with a plateful of challenges. As we left the mortuary after saying good-bye to Ken, Tom put his arm around my mother and me and said, “We’re down to just three now, aren’t we?” Yes, we are. And who knows when we will be just two. I pray daily for the grace to stand with Mary and Joseph, for the strength to remain steadfastly hopeful and thankful, even in the midst of loss and sorrow. Some days it’s a struggle. Some days it’s as easy as breathing. All days, I am grateful to God for each breath I am granted. And this day, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a blessed New Year.

Adding this to the list at several places this week. Please check them all out and read a few here and there. Always richness to be found in these places:

Filed Under: Advent, family, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

Advent 3: Good News!

December 13, 2011 By Diana

It was the music that did it.

Two violins, three flutes, electric and acoustic guitars, piano, two male vocalists.

And of course, the arrangements.

(Thank you, Bob Gross)

As we sang, a lush accompaniment buoyed us, with pieces of familiar carols circling around the praise choruses.

I could hear, “Away in the Manger” over and above the words to, “Amen, Amen.”

We sang songs about waiting, songs appropriate for this season.

And then we sang this small chorus, a setting of the words from the Old Testament lesson for the morning, Isaiah 61:1-11.

And something about the way this song was worded,

the way the melody housed those words,

the way we all sang it together – well, it just got me.

“Beauty for ashes, garments of praise for my heaviness.

Beauty for ashes, take this heart of mine and make it Yours.

I delight myself in the Richest of Fare,

trading all that I’ve had for all that is better;

a garment of praise for my heaviness.

You are the greatest taste.”

I thought about my mother and her increasing frailty.

I thought about my brother and the hard things he is dealing with.

I thought about my daughter and how she is living this truth so beautifully just now, after a long season of ashes.

I thought about my own life and how the good news is what I hunger for, the good news that takes ashes away and replaces them with beauty; that takes heaviness away and replaces it with gossamer thin, lightweight, flowing garments of praise.

And I wept.

Tears of sadness, yes.

But tears of truth, too.

Tears of yearning, I think.

Yearning for the people I love to experience good news in their lives. Yearning to be one who carries that good news, who channels it, who shares it, who lives and releases and savors it.

This, tall graceful angel – a word that means ‘messenger’ in the biblical text – this angel stands guard over the word, trumpeting the message of truth and love and grace to all who will listen. She is surrounded by evergreens and candlelight, pungent pinecones and softly glinting ornaments.

And as I gazed at her during worship, I found myself listening for good news as the word was read: 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24 (which I wrote about yesterday) and Luke 1:26-38, the record of Mary’s visit with one of those messengers of God and her remarkably poised response. Not asking, ‘Why?’ Only asking, “How?”

What might have seemed like terrifying news was apparently received as GOOD news by this young woman.

And I wondered.

Do I know how truly ‘good’ this news is?

Do I believe it, deep down in the marrow of me?

Do I live as though I believe it?

The preached text for the morning was full to the brim with all kinds of good news:

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim freedom for the captives,

and release from darkness for the prisoners,

to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor

and the day of vengeance of our God,

to comfort all who mourn,

and provide for those who grieve in Zion –

to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,

the oil of joy instead of mourning,

and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

These words of Isaiah the prophet are the very words Jesus read out into the synagogue as he began his ministry.

These words spell out what the Good News looks like, how it reads, how it rolls.

And here’s the kicker:

these are also the words that describe what we are to look like as we follow in the dusty footprints of our Savior.

These are the truths that describe what disciples are supposed to be and to do.

We are to be those who bring:

the bandages,

the keys to long-locked places,

the elixir of freedom to the darkest of cells,

the words and the deeds,

the hugs and the home-cooked meals,

the prayers and the extra miles,

the very scent of the oil with which Jesus was anointed –

the oil of joy in the midst of despair.

So the question I’m left with, after the music and after the tears, is this one:

Do I smell like Jesus?

Does my life carry the scent of invitation,

of welcome and renewal,

of hope and praise and joy?

Not the false scent of polite,

“Oh, I’m just fine, really I am – just fine.”

Not the musky cover-up of pollyannish ‘cheer.’

But the real deal.

The splash of tears when sad things come,

the sigh of frustration when folks don’t ‘get it,’

the head-thrown-back, hearty laughter at the hilarity of being human,
the willingness to say,

“Yeah, this is hard. And I’m sorry it’s happened to you.”

That’s what true good news looks like.

Binding up the brokenhearted cannot happen unless we first admit to our own broken hearts, unless we testify to God’s ability to heal the heaviness we carry.

On the way to our healing,

the Carpenter wept over the city,

he wept at the loss of his friend, Lazarus,

he flung the whips around in anger at injustice in the temple,

he chided his friends for falling asleep while he wrestled so hard with death that he pushed out beads of blood instead of sweat.

Our Healer was broken – by life and the failures of friends rather than by sin –
but he was broken, even as we are broken.

And we, too, are called to be wounded healers,

messengers of good news in the midst of all kinds of bad tidings.

Because we must carry with us always the powerful truth
that the Christmas tree becomes the cross,

the manger stall becomes the tomb,

and the news must get very bad indeed, before the Truth breaks forth in great waves of goodness on Easter Sunday morning.

But break forth it does.

For news like this simply cannot be contained.

And it is so very, very good.

Joining with Michelle tonight, with Jen and Emily F. tomorrow, with Ann on Wednesday and Emily W. on Thursday, with thanks for each of them – for their glorious writing skills and their hearts for God:

Filed Under: Advent, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

Advent Sunday 2: The Truest Meaning of Comfort

December 6, 2011 By Diana

“‘Comfort, comfort my people,’ says your God…

He tends his flock like a shepherd:

he gathers the lambs in his arms

and carries them close to his heart;

he gently leads those that have young.”

Isaiah 40:1 & 11, part of the Advent text for the 2nd Sunday, year B

I drove down to the beach for my evening walk on Saturday.

It was cold for these parts, with a brisk breeze making my cheeks burn,

forcing hands into pockets.

The sun was setting, casting a pathway of golden light on the water in front of me.

And I thought of this passage from the prophet Isaiah,

these 11 verses in the 40th chapter, verses that contain not only the beautiful words quoted above, but also these:

“Prepare ye the way of the LORD…

“And the glory of the LORD shall be revealed…”

Starting in about the 8th grade, and continuing until the last few years,

I have sung in choirs of all different kinds, sizes, styles.

And these words from Isaiah 40 have been a part of the repertoire of almost all of those choirs, most often set to the music of Handel in, “The Messiah.”

I have heard at least a dozen different tenor soloists ring out with the sweet sounds of, “Comfort Ye My People,” and probably a couple of dozen altos sing of our Shepherd. In fact, I think I even had my arm twisted and became one of those 2 dozen at a Christmas concert about 25 years ago.

But in all those years of reading and listening, of studying and wondering, I don’t think I ever put those verses together in my head and in my heart – the one from the beginning of the chapter and the one from the end of the Advent reading.

Yesterday’s worship service helped me to do exactly that.

Do you ever really think about the word, the idea of ‘comfort?’ Most of us can think of things/people/events/foods that help us feel comfortable, that help us feel secure, that help us celebrate the simple gifts. Because that’s what comfort is really about, don’t you think?

The simple things.

A hug when you’re not expecting it.

A word of kindness when you’re blue.

A dish of ice cream in the heat of summer.

A cup of cocoa in the crisp coolness of fall.

The assurance that, ‘All shall be well,’ when it feels decidedly unwell all around us.

A reminder that God is faithful, even when – perhaps most especially when –

we are seriously doubting that truth.

And for me, those reminders of God’s faithfulness are often small, simple gifts.

A giggling toddler.

A rainbow.

Birdsong.

The smell of a wood fire.

The angle of the light as the days grow shorter and the shadows longer.

An earnest word of thanks – delivered in person, by phone, in the mail,

or on the blog post.

An unexpected moment of quiet in the midst of the rush-rush of the day.

A sudden onslaught of tears which speak

so strongly of God’s imminence and kindness.

Strange to think that tears can be comforting.

Yet I have learned that very often the Comforter is moving in our tears,

speaking words of love and recognition through that sudden saltiness that brims and overflows.

I found myself in tears tonight, praying for a new friend.

There was the gift of insight with those tears,

the wisdom of an older friend of Jesus melding with my own God-sensed ideas about her situation, and I knew

that I had been given the briefest of glimpses behind the curtain.

And that was such a comfort as I wrestle my way to becoming increasingly sensitive to the story beneath the story, the truth below the surface.

Yes, these tears brought comfort.

I deeply desire to be one who prepares the way of the Lord, who is open to the possibility of glory, who offers comfort to others. But for those things to happen in and through me, I must first be the one who is comforted.

Paul spells this truth out for us in his second greeting to the church at Corinth:

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles,

so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”

Yesterday’s sermon helped me to connect the dots, to see that God’s ‘coming at us with arms outstretched’ (the literal meaning of the Hebrew word for ‘comfort’) is the basic building block upon which the entire story of the Bible is built.

“The glory of God is a human being fully alive,”

Iraneaus wrote over 1900 years ago.

And the glory of the Lord,

the way that is to be prepared,

all of it comes to fruition in us,

as we allow ourselves to receive the comforting grace-gift God holds out to us,

the one held out with so much love.

May you, dear readers, experience the comfort of our God this Advent season.

And then, even as you have received, may you help prepare the LORD’s way by offering that same comfort to others.

Offering it for Jesus’ sake,

that great Shepherd of the sheep who gently carries us close to his heart.

Connecting with several kind invitations tonight – Deidra’s new “Sunday” party, which probably really doesn’t want so many words as I’ve put down here this time; Jennifer’s spankin’ new GodBumpsGod-intentions,” Michelle’s “HearItUseIt” meme, Jen’s Solideogloria sisterhood and Emily’s “Tuesdays Unwrapped.” Whew! Did I forget anyone?? YUP. Forgot lovely Emily over at CanvasChild and her Thursday invitation to offer some ImperfectProse: