Ok- I wrote two perfectly wonderful paragraphs to Chasing the Light. A fine introduction and a clever story. And they didn't post. What's up with that?
Am I doing something wrong? Or is God my editor?
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Chasing the Lightl
Some day I want to drive a RV all over the continent, on back roads. And whenever I see a great photo opportunity, I will just wait for the perfect light. Time won't control my pace, light will.
So last weekend, I planned a perfect photo road trip. I was in southwestern Virginia and returned home on the Blue Ridge Parkway. And I was about a week too late. The leaves were not only past their peak but most had fallen off the trees. But I knew that if I could just get on the road before dawn, I could chase down the fragile morning light and get something. Which I did.
I set out to take stunning fall panoramas, leaves of brilliant colors, winding country roads. I took photos of barns. Do you have any idea how many cool, old barns are along that road? Or how much that slows down your progress? And that there are NO public bathrooms open on the Parkway after October?
Which leads me to the lessons I learned. Light is really great only about two hours after sunrise. Leaves look cool with the light shining through them as much as light shining ON them. I'm drawn to barns. They remind me of my childhood on a dairy farm. And - empty your bladder before setting out on an adventure.
And remember that when you are open to new possibilities, God opens your eyes to them. It's not the grand panorama that fills most of our days but there is always beauty in the details of every day life. The complex texture of tree bark, the shadows on the barn wood, the one red leaf against the crisp blue sky. All around me are signs and wonders, glimpses of beauty while chasing the light.
So last weekend, I planned a perfect photo road trip. I was in southwestern Virginia and returned home on the Blue Ridge Parkway. And I was about a week too late. The leaves were not only past their peak but most had fallen off the trees. But I knew that if I could just get on the road before dawn, I could chase down the fragile morning light and get something. Which I did.
I set out to take stunning fall panoramas, leaves of brilliant colors, winding country roads. I took photos of barns. Do you have any idea how many cool, old barns are along that road? Or how much that slows down your progress? And that there are NO public bathrooms open on the Parkway after October?
Which leads me to the lessons I learned. Light is really great only about two hours after sunrise. Leaves look cool with the light shining through them as much as light shining ON them. I'm drawn to barns. They remind me of my childhood on a dairy farm. And - empty your bladder before setting out on an adventure.
And remember that when you are open to new possibilities, God opens your eyes to them. It's not the grand panorama that fills most of our days but there is always beauty in the details of every day life. The complex texture of tree bark, the shadows on the barn wood, the one red leaf against the crisp blue sky. All around me are signs and wonders, glimpses of beauty while chasing the light.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Cruising through life
Muses of a reluctant cruiser
Well, I’m rocking gently in my bed as the sun turns the sky pink outside my balcony- I’m on a Royal Caribbean cruise ship. It’s been an interesting ten days. If asked, I would say that I had a wonderful time on this cruise and I can’t I image every wanting to take another one. It fulfilled most of my expectations – it really is like being trapped at sea on a floating mall- on senior citizen day. With a touch of Los Vegas- complete with a smoky casino. There was more food than one could ever eat and much of it was pretty mediocre. After eight days, Janet and I trudging, not bounding up the stairs. There was no end to the entertainment but it was only entertaining because it was funny; I am sure that was not the response they wanted from the ice show, in particular. We decided the show producers skipped their meds the day they picked the music. Some wildly inappropriate lyrics and 90% of the audience did't notice.
My sister, our mother and I were a threesome and, along with very fun dining companions, have had a great time together. No, Janet and I did not coordinate our clothes- we just found ourselfves doing the same thing and wearing the same colors. Another post! We have seen beautiful New England ports, played card games, soaked in some nice pools, and walked the decks in lovely sunsets. 
Janet has discovered her inner artist and, of course, is better than me in all she puts her hands to. I should be jealous but it is such a pleasure to see her dabble in paint and love it.
She and I also discovered we love windy decks and wild seas, only yoga before breakfast made us queasy. Janet is a great travel companion and an astute observer of people and life. And her observation of cruises is that they are designed to give people a vacation where their comfort level is increased, not diminished. So the ship promenade feels like an upscale American mall but with limited shopping. There are little bars everywhere for those who need to self medicate. The food is restaurant fare that wouldn’t offend the majority but tastes like Olive Garden. Janet and I could hardly climb the stairs after ten days of heavy cruise food. It makes sense- this is an American ship with mostly American passengers. I do wonder why other nationalities would chose to travel with us but then seasoned travelers tell me that this cruise ship has some of the best food. Hmm…. that’s scary.
But mostly it is the noise of the place that makes it so unappealing. Waves slapping the side of a ship is a most pleasant way to fall asleep but one cannot stay in a small stateroom for ten days. The rest of the ship is a steady murmur of noise – the babble of voices lining up for everything from dinner to shows to departure gangplanks to dinner to shows to the chocolate buffet (see a pattern here ?). The music in the promenade drifts from decent Latin to truly awful Caribbean. The announcements start each morning with our cheerful cruise director telling us just what we are doing today and continue through to the evening announcement of Bingo. If we could have found that woman with her annoyingly chipper voice, we would have gladly thrown her overboard. Wrapped in our sheets.
Well, that didn't get posted . And now I am home and I am reflecting on our time. We did have so much fun together but my sister and I could have fun in a closet. We had some wonderful times with my mother and that doesn’t usually happen- she is often left out of our inside jokes and weird humor but this time we all made more effort than usual. We ALL found the folded towel animals endlessly amusing – wow, that sounds incredibly shallow. Maybe cruising does decrease your brain cells. Could it be something in the water that makes a hanging towel monkey funny? Or lead us to dress it in a pink push-up bra and sunglasses, with bling earrings?
On reflection, I would probably cruise again- perhaps on a small ship with a group of like minded people, a history tour or even an artist group. A focus on learning, not entertainment. And a ship with a decent library or cheap wifi!All this made me realize the value of silence, of solitude, of contemplation. All the quiet pieces of my life that I have take for granted. Yes, I could have found quieter places on the boat and hid from the world. But I’m too drawn to the crowd, to the party and I only realize the cost in the end. I in the past, I was the one who stayed up too late and kept going too long- all with the irrational fear that I would miss something fun, something stimulating. I haven’t realized how much alone time I have built into my world now until it was removed and replaced with the noise of the world having a good time.
Turns out I wasn’t missing much after all.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Home Alone.... almost!
Paul is stirring down in the basement guest bedroom. We've pretty much dismantled his upstairs room- this may have been a good transition for a young man who doesn't like any change. He leaves for his adventure to Seattle in a few hours and I will be without a biological child under my roof for the first time in 30 years. Wow- just writing that makes me feel old but the time has sped by. And God has provided Kate and Stephanie to share the house this year so I'm really not Home Alone.
But as I sit here and contemplate 30 years of hands-on mothering - I remember jaundice, colic, sleepless nights, lots of diapers-starting with cloth ones! I remember sweet baby smells, sippy cups, walking a toddler up and down the aisles of a 747 flying across the Pacific. I remember seeing my baby become a "big boy" as the next baby arrived and soon two little boys wrestling with their dad. I remember the dream of holding a baby wrapped in pink and the arrival of a precious daughter. I remember the complete confusion of an emergency cesarean and the bliss of yet another sweet baby on my chest.
I remember finger painting and lots of play dough. Play dates in the park and walks around the block pulling a little red wagon. And books- reading out loud for hours. Little House on the Prairie, Anne of Green Gables, the Chronicles of Narnia, the Redwall series with mole speech. And a hundred books I thought I'd never forget and now can't recall the titles. But I remember the press of a small body against me in the chair, of big eyes watching me during the suspense. I remember reading with such joy and gratitude.
I remember juggling life and overseas moves, teaching, standardized tests and curriculum fairs. A small boy who refused to do school but stood in the school room table and built Lego creations and answered his brother's math questions. Taking dictation for stories on an Apple that printed on a dot matrix printer with perforated paper. Dissecting anything we could find. Going to the beach and calling it marine biology. Struggling with one who couldn't read and rejoicing when we had successs. Wondering if I was doing anything right and knowing that I wouldn't really know the results of my efforts for years .
I remember driving toddlers across the United States in a VW Vanagon and years later, taking teens in a conversion van. I remember driving up the East Coast in a VW hippie bus and crossing the Alps and wandering through Europe in a Dodge Caravan. I remember teaching teens to drive stick in a small sports car and park an enormous conversion van.
I remember the well baby check ups and shots, the boo boos of toddlers, bamboo spears and ER visits. I remember frightening hours of asthma episodes and breathing treatments, surgeries and stitches. The wails of babies, the whines of toddlers, the shouts of the rowdy preteen years, the tears of teens.
I remember, piano recitals, art lessons, and field trips. Ah, the field trips- Japanese WWII sites and beaches, the Santa Fe trail and wagon ruts in the Missouri River, Roman ruins and Pompei. Factory tours for olive oil, pasta, cheese and wine. More churches than necessary and fewer art museums than I wanted. The Smithsonian and opera at the Kennedy Center.
I remember soccer practice and mandarin oranges for snacks. I remember basketball, ballet, gymnastics and archery. I remember rabbit shows and long drives with books on tape. I remember cross country seasons and buying really expensive shoes, often. I remember watching them run by, breathless and determined, and aching to give them my strength. I remember graduations and the search for the perfect college. The first trip to college and driving home without them.
But mostly I remember the words, the conversations. The snuggling in bunkbeds to end the day and the profound questions late at night. The funny sayings that the baby contributed to lunch and the deep discussions around a big round oak table. The thank yous and the hugs. The prayers and the "I'm sorry"s. The long conversations in the car where you don't have to make eye contact, you just share from your heart. I remember conversations late at night where I had to rely more on the Holy Spirit than my own wits because my wits were too sleepy.
So.... the last child leaves. Paul's off on his grand adventure. His room is almost empty. His desk is almost clean. His presence may have left the house but he and Scott and Drew and Abby will always have a place in my heart where they are still my little people and I can safely tuck them into bed each night and kiss away any boo boos. Now our family has joyfully expanded to include Lindsay and Steve as part of "the kids". And my heart is comforted to know that the same God who loves me and has been so amazing in His care will keep and guide and watch over and provide for the little peeps as they leave my nest. The world with all it's joys and sorrows awaits them and a new season awaits me. Let the adventure begin.
But as I sit here and contemplate 30 years of hands-on mothering - I remember jaundice, colic, sleepless nights, lots of diapers-starting with cloth ones! I remember sweet baby smells, sippy cups, walking a toddler up and down the aisles of a 747 flying across the Pacific. I remember seeing my baby become a "big boy" as the next baby arrived and soon two little boys wrestling with their dad. I remember the dream of holding a baby wrapped in pink and the arrival of a precious daughter. I remember the complete confusion of an emergency cesarean and the bliss of yet another sweet baby on my chest.
I remember finger painting and lots of play dough. Play dates in the park and walks around the block pulling a little red wagon. And books- reading out loud for hours. Little House on the Prairie, Anne of Green Gables, the Chronicles of Narnia, the Redwall series with mole speech. And a hundred books I thought I'd never forget and now can't recall the titles. But I remember the press of a small body against me in the chair, of big eyes watching me during the suspense. I remember reading with such joy and gratitude.
I remember juggling life and overseas moves, teaching, standardized tests and curriculum fairs. A small boy who refused to do school but stood in the school room table and built Lego creations and answered his brother's math questions. Taking dictation for stories on an Apple that printed on a dot matrix printer with perforated paper. Dissecting anything we could find. Going to the beach and calling it marine biology. Struggling with one who couldn't read and rejoicing when we had successs. Wondering if I was doing anything right and knowing that I wouldn't really know the results of my efforts for years .
I remember driving toddlers across the United States in a VW Vanagon and years later, taking teens in a conversion van. I remember driving up the East Coast in a VW hippie bus and crossing the Alps and wandering through Europe in a Dodge Caravan. I remember teaching teens to drive stick in a small sports car and park an enormous conversion van.
I remember the well baby check ups and shots, the boo boos of toddlers, bamboo spears and ER visits. I remember frightening hours of asthma episodes and breathing treatments, surgeries and stitches. The wails of babies, the whines of toddlers, the shouts of the rowdy preteen years, the tears of teens.
I remember, piano recitals, art lessons, and field trips. Ah, the field trips- Japanese WWII sites and beaches, the Santa Fe trail and wagon ruts in the Missouri River, Roman ruins and Pompei. Factory tours for olive oil, pasta, cheese and wine. More churches than necessary and fewer art museums than I wanted. The Smithsonian and opera at the Kennedy Center.
I remember soccer practice and mandarin oranges for snacks. I remember basketball, ballet, gymnastics and archery. I remember rabbit shows and long drives with books on tape. I remember cross country seasons and buying really expensive shoes, often. I remember watching them run by, breathless and determined, and aching to give them my strength. I remember graduations and the search for the perfect college. The first trip to college and driving home without them.
But mostly I remember the words, the conversations. The snuggling in bunkbeds to end the day and the profound questions late at night. The funny sayings that the baby contributed to lunch and the deep discussions around a big round oak table. The thank yous and the hugs. The prayers and the "I'm sorry"s. The long conversations in the car where you don't have to make eye contact, you just share from your heart. I remember conversations late at night where I had to rely more on the Holy Spirit than my own wits because my wits were too sleepy.
So.... the last child leaves. Paul's off on his grand adventure. His room is almost empty. His desk is almost clean. His presence may have left the house but he and Scott and Drew and Abby will always have a place in my heart where they are still my little people and I can safely tuck them into bed each night and kiss away any boo boos. Now our family has joyfully expanded to include Lindsay and Steve as part of "the kids". And my heart is comforted to know that the same God who loves me and has been so amazing in His care will keep and guide and watch over and provide for the little peeps as they leave my nest. The world with all it's joys and sorrows awaits them and a new season awaits me. Let the adventure begin.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Floyd, Virginia- an opportunity of a lifetime
Floyd, Virginia
It’s Labor Day weekend- a holiday set aside to recognize the great contribution of the American worker; the farmer, the plumber, the factory worker. In my world it’s become a weekend where the white-collar workers who don’t actually produce anything escape the rat race one last time before school starts.
For my family, it’s one last time together before Paul leaves for Seattle. We’re at a small family run resort in southern Virginia, on the edge of Appalachia. Everyone seems to know each other. The family patriarch had a very successful church in North Carolina and it feels a bit like we’ve crashed old home week. It doesn’t bother me- or at least, I don’t feel the need to vent about it but I hear it from Drew and I see it in Paul. To retreat into our own family vacation seems rude but what’s the motivation to break into a church reunion of people we may never see again? Tubing today will be fun and may even break the ice a bit.
But last night was an interesting event. This place is about ten minutes from Floyd, Virginia. Just another small southern town except this one has been hosting bluegrass jam sessions every Friday night since 1910. A hundred years of the American laborers coming down from the hills to the town and having impromptu pickup sessions. I’m not a blue grass officiado – heck, I can hardly identify the instruments- so it was harder for me to truly appreciate what was happening around me. But the town has prospered from the crowds that come to hum, tap and sometimes, play along. They’ve built brick seating areas along a main street (not THE Main St., that’s a side street) and groups form and play and the crowds mingle around them in a fluid dance between performer and audience.
Some groups are obviously regulars- they have their kids sitting on pillows at their feet and grandma with her walker on the side. They ignore the people gawking and taking pictures and bend over instruments that could be generations old. Other groups just form up- older musicians including the newcomers and playing to the crowd that form around them. I assume from the size of the crowd that builds across the street that that’s a superior sound. I can appreciate the skills but not really the sound.
Some groups are obviously regulars- they have their kids sitting on pillows at their feet and grandma with her walker on the side. They ignore the people gawking and taking pictures and bend over instruments that could be generations old. Other groups just form up- older musicians including the newcomers and playing to the crowd that form around them. I assume from the size of the crowd that builds across the street that that’s a superior sound. I can appreciate the skills but not really the sound.
The place that started it all is the Floyd Country Store. What was probably a typical country general store has morphed into a home grown version of Cracker Barrel- only the prices reflect what tourist pay, not town folk. It cost $5 to come to the front of the store and dance. My sister in law and I wandered through the shopping and ended up right near the front and of course, stopped to listen. A dapper gentleman was coming through the crowd to the front and asked Terry to dance. When she declined, he asked me. I said I didn’t dance in public and he laughed and moved on. As Terry and I turned to go, the woman behind us said, “You just missed the opportunity of a lifetime.” Before I could get the whole story, the stout “dance police” bustled up and informed Terry and I we needed to leave and get a ticket. Turns out it costs $5 to watch as well.
So… what did I miss? Was he a local dancer extraordinaire? Was he a old time movie star or blue grass champion? Was she pulling my leg? I don’t think so and the more I think about it, the more I regret not dancing- $5 or not! Who cares what I dance like- it was jitterbug and I have been known to be able to follow a competent dancer. Why didn’t I throw caution to the wind- heavens, it’s highly unlikely I will ever see any of these people again! Next time- I’m gonna dance!
And my other question- what other chances of a lifetime have I passed up? Will someone always be there to tell me or will I just pass by life without fully experiencing the “opportunities of a lifetime”? Those take your breath away moments that don’t come everyday. I want to be aware and sensitive to the Lord who wants to show me fullness of life right here, right now. I want to see in each person I encounter the opportunity that will never return for this particular moment – to be kind, to be available, to be Jesus with skin on.
I want to live life ready to dance.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
South Dakota - a home and a future?
I returned from a week in South Dakota over a week ago and just now have a quiet time to post my writing. What a season.
Finally a quiet time to reflect. This certainly wasn’t the calm retreat I expected. I need to keep my expectations low…. Less frustrations that way. I was productive- paperwork signed, boxes unpacked, fences walked and neighbors met. I guess I just wanted to sit in my own house and be …. Alone.
There is that never-ending conflict. I want to be in community, I want to have a lively relationships with my family. And I want to be left alone to do my own thing and have my time to write and create and be the me that I feel straining to emerge. I was introduced as Kathy over and over and it felt pretentious to correct my own mother and say, “I’m Kathryn”. What a trivial reflection. It was a wonderful week.
There is that never-ending conflict. I want to be in community, I want to have a lively relationships with my family. And I want to be left alone to do my own thing and have my time to write and create and be the me that I feel straining to emerge. I was introduced as Kathy over and over and it felt pretentious to correct my own mother and say, “I’m Kathryn”. What a trivial reflection. It was a wonderful week.
I sat in the golden womb of this log home and thought, “I can’t believe this is my house.” I was able to stay there one night and was up with the dawn. I wandered in the swirling grasses and gazed at the soft golden light as it lit up the barn, my barn. Beyond the barn, the pasture land along the creek bottom had been mowed and bundled into great round bales, leaving the creek to meander through the its borders of tall, lush grass. In the distance, horses grazed in quiet contentment and further off, the dark outlines of the Black Hills. I turned around at the far end of my fence and there was my house- sturdily planted on the gentle hill by its stone foundations.
What does God have in mind for those bedrooms? What meals will be cooked in that kitchen and eaten on those decks? That loft with its wonderful attic hiding places. That stupid Jacuzzi bathtub, practically in the great room, and taking precious space up in the master bedroom/ loft. I intend to cover it with plywood and add a ton of pillows, maybe a spare mattress. I can see that as a reading nook, not a pretend pool, a pool with no heater! But maybe it will be filled with giggling grandchildren one day. So I’ll resist ripping it out.
My brother is helpful with ideas for adding more lofts, tearing out walls and changing in steep stairways. Add a closet here, add a kitchen there. This deck would be so much better with a porch. They say to live in a space for a year before you make changes so you know how the space will work for you. That’ll be easy- all those plans are going to cost someone a bit of cash and it won’t be my brother! But it is exciting to think of making the house a hone.
That’s my heart cry. I want this place to become a home. Not merely a house that people visit or a yard that demands so much work that it isn't a place of relaxation. I want a home that invites friends and friends of friends to stop and rest, to pause and remember His provision, to enjoy good food and good conversations. A little taste of heaven here on earth to remind any of us that God always provides a respite.
I looked at places to write on the walls of my house- but most of them are logs! That’s ok- I have some ideas for shelves and maybe that’s where I can copy Scripture and proclaim the wonders of the God who has so generously given.
I looked at places to write on the walls of my house- but most of them are logs! That’s ok- I have some ideas for shelves and maybe that’s where I can copy Scripture and proclaim the wonders of the God who has so generously given.
"I know the plans I have for you. Plans to give you a Hope and a Future". Jeremiah 29:11.
So this is my HOME and my FUTURE.
Out of death comes Life. The seed that falls to the ground is the beginning of all fruit. God, you are always good. You are always about redemption. You're giving me a hope and a future out of the season of grief and pain. Thank you.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Blogging is women's work
Hey- that's an original title for a blog post. Tonight I read up on a friend's trip, checked out HER sister in law, found a link to an old aquaintance, found a random link and spent a moment with a wild gal and her messed up life- and honestly, without saying a word or posting a comment, felt connected. There's something about the rawness of what women share on these sites. It so encourages me to be real and honest. I think... ha, my insecurity is revealed!
Do men blog? And about what- stuff probably- cars, sports, stuff, not emotions. We women are so emotional, so needy to express ourselves and get it all out there. We have such hearts that long to be understood. And we long to connect.
I have friends who say they 'stalk' people on Facebook- go onto their sites and look at pictures, etc but who vents emotions and shares their heart on Facebook? Facebook is all about presenting a glimpse of ourselves- maybe a well composed picture or a funny quip about what-ever. And usually nothing-ever. It's Life Lite, as far as I'm concerned. ( And I do think more men facebook than blog... just my very limited observation. hmmm- anyone want to weigh in on that comment?)
I kept wondering why I couldn't get into Facebook- besides the embarrasement of not knowing how to upload pictures even though my very patient daughter has showed me several times. And these things really do look better with some graphic fun- I'm too visual to be content with just words with no pics but if given the choice, I'd rather have words. Lots of words. I'd rather have messy life and raw realness. I'd rather read about other women who question life and yet embrace it, who Love and get hurt in the process but get up and continue to Live. Who spend the time to spill their hearts and trust the great "out there" to be kind. We are a trusting bunch.
This morning, I was driving down my favorite country road going to work and the morning preacher was preaching (who if he's boring gets quickly replaced by classic music, played VERY loud- love driving alone!)- anyway, the preacher is preaching. Obviously, I've missed something of the thread of his message but he suddenly he wraps up with a quote from Jill Briscoe, the wife of a evangelist/ teacher, Stuart Briscoe. He had travelled extensively during much of their marriage and as she had a private meltdown during his one three month hiatus, she came to the realization that...
"As Paul found, the content of contentment is Christ! (Phil. 4:12-13). I knew in my head that no man could ever love me enough, no child could ever need me enough, no friend could ever befriend me enough—only Jesus could! But now I began to know that fact in my heart."
And I think that is what we Christian women discover as we blog and express these longings- no amount of stuff, relationships, wonderful kids and not so wonderful days with those kids- none of it is enough. Only Jesus.
wish I really knew that about thirty years ago- not in my head but really in my heart .... oh well, finish strong. Share the wisdom. Blog on.
PS- love this font that came with the quote- next task. Learn how to change fonts! Hey- when I looked at the preview, its all one font. I'm so confused. I think- maybe it is different. That's me- terribly profound one moment, completely confused the next. :)
Do men blog? And about what- stuff probably- cars, sports, stuff, not emotions. We women are so emotional, so needy to express ourselves and get it all out there. We have such hearts that long to be understood. And we long to connect.
I have friends who say they 'stalk' people on Facebook- go onto their sites and look at pictures, etc but who vents emotions and shares their heart on Facebook? Facebook is all about presenting a glimpse of ourselves- maybe a well composed picture or a funny quip about what-ever. And usually nothing-ever. It's Life Lite, as far as I'm concerned. ( And I do think more men facebook than blog... just my very limited observation. hmmm- anyone want to weigh in on that comment?)
I kept wondering why I couldn't get into Facebook- besides the embarrasement of not knowing how to upload pictures even though my very patient daughter has showed me several times. And these things really do look better with some graphic fun- I'm too visual to be content with just words with no pics but if given the choice, I'd rather have words. Lots of words. I'd rather have messy life and raw realness. I'd rather read about other women who question life and yet embrace it, who Love and get hurt in the process but get up and continue to Live. Who spend the time to spill their hearts and trust the great "out there" to be kind. We are a trusting bunch.
This morning, I was driving down my favorite country road going to work and the morning preacher was preaching (who if he's boring gets quickly replaced by classic music, played VERY loud- love driving alone!)- anyway, the preacher is preaching. Obviously, I've missed something of the thread of his message but he suddenly he wraps up with a quote from Jill Briscoe, the wife of a evangelist/ teacher, Stuart Briscoe. He had travelled extensively during much of their marriage and as she had a private meltdown during his one three month hiatus, she came to the realization that...
"As Paul found, the content of contentment is Christ! (Phil. 4:12-13). I knew in my head that no man could ever love me enough, no child could ever need me enough, no friend could ever befriend me enough—only Jesus could! But now I began to know that fact in my heart."
And I think that is what we Christian women discover as we blog and express these longings- no amount of stuff, relationships, wonderful kids and not so wonderful days with those kids- none of it is enough. Only Jesus.
wish I really knew that about thirty years ago- not in my head but really in my heart .... oh well, finish strong. Share the wisdom. Blog on.
PS- love this font that came with the quote- next task. Learn how to change fonts! Hey- when I looked at the preview, its all one font. I'm so confused. I think- maybe it is different. That's me- terribly profound one moment, completely confused the next. :)
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The light at the end of the tunnel- starts with a garden? Part Two
As I started to say in my previous post....I'm seeing light at the end of the tunnel. It has been a long hard road these last four years. I have the bittersweet memories of my time with Bill in our wild and scary garden- where we whacked out some beauty from the weeds that ultimately brought death and it's probably time to leave the garden metaphor.
Well, maybe not. I was left with one specimen, Paul. And for four years I have examined him and watched him and tried to nurture him but the more attention I gave him, the more he withdrew. Every time he grew a little on his grief journey, I pulled him up and examined his tender roots.I vacillated between understanding and complete frustration. I said yes to activities and then regretted my decisions. I was the object of his anger- expressed and repressed. I took him to counselors and specialists. I cried my eyes out in fear and anguish. I knew my other kids were hurting but somehow they seemed to have faithful friends and better coping mechanisms so most of my attention was centered on Paul. He was the tender, broken piece in my garden and I didn't know what else to do for him.
But when all is said and done, a gardener is only the tender of the plants, not the source of their growth. And slowly, I made fewer mistakes and said fewer words. Prayed more and worried less. Trusted God more and ignored the specialists. And someday, I'll be able to share the details. For now, it's enough to savor the amazing sweetness of a son who is talking to me, making plans to move on and seeing light at the end of his tunnel.
This was a summer of mission trips for both of us. I've been on the mission board for years now and this was my first real mission trip. I ended up teaching art therapy at a children's home. And I know nothing about art therapy. Isn't it just like God to show up when we don't know what we're doing?
Paul went to Ireland and God showed up there also. In the months leading up to the trip, Paul had become softer and more open. We had more conversations and less silences. He had deep spiritual insight in our home group discussions. God had been working all this time and Ireland was the fruit of the years of prayer and trusting and waiting. Paul, the "most private patient I've ever had", stepped out in obedience and shared his testimony. In public. More than once. With power and growing confidence in what God had done and was doing in his life And as he shared with me how that felt, the joy that flooded him when he was able to be open and honest and vulnerable- I knew we were coming out of the long, dark timel. The Light had always been there drawing us forward to healing. And, yes, it all started in a Garden.
We were created for relationship in that garden. For relationship with our Creator and for relationship with each other. Sin in that same garden lead to alienation, sickness and destruction, cancer and death. But God is all about redeeming His creation and His people and recreating relationship. So as Paul prepares to move to the West Coast and I begin to mourn my empty nest, I chose to rejoice in this place on my journey, on our journey. Redeemed relationship with promise of future.More opportunities to trust and release. Life in the garden.
Well, maybe not. I was left with one specimen, Paul. And for four years I have examined him and watched him and tried to nurture him but the more attention I gave him, the more he withdrew. Every time he grew a little on his grief journey, I pulled him up and examined his tender roots.I vacillated between understanding and complete frustration. I said yes to activities and then regretted my decisions. I was the object of his anger- expressed and repressed. I took him to counselors and specialists. I cried my eyes out in fear and anguish. I knew my other kids were hurting but somehow they seemed to have faithful friends and better coping mechanisms so most of my attention was centered on Paul. He was the tender, broken piece in my garden and I didn't know what else to do for him.
But when all is said and done, a gardener is only the tender of the plants, not the source of their growth. And slowly, I made fewer mistakes and said fewer words. Prayed more and worried less. Trusted God more and ignored the specialists. And someday, I'll be able to share the details. For now, it's enough to savor the amazing sweetness of a son who is talking to me, making plans to move on and seeing light at the end of his tunnel.
This was a summer of mission trips for both of us. I've been on the mission board for years now and this was my first real mission trip. I ended up teaching art therapy at a children's home. And I know nothing about art therapy. Isn't it just like God to show up when we don't know what we're doing?
Paul went to Ireland and God showed up there also. In the months leading up to the trip, Paul had become softer and more open. We had more conversations and less silences. He had deep spiritual insight in our home group discussions. God had been working all this time and Ireland was the fruit of the years of prayer and trusting and waiting. Paul, the "most private patient I've ever had", stepped out in obedience and shared his testimony. In public. More than once. With power and growing confidence in what God had done and was doing in his life And as he shared with me how that felt, the joy that flooded him when he was able to be open and honest and vulnerable- I knew we were coming out of the long, dark timel. The Light had always been there drawing us forward to healing. And, yes, it all started in a Garden.
We were created for relationship in that garden. For relationship with our Creator and for relationship with each other. Sin in that same garden lead to alienation, sickness and destruction, cancer and death. But God is all about redeeming His creation and His people and recreating relationship. So as Paul prepares to move to the West Coast and I begin to mourn my empty nest, I chose to rejoice in this place on my journey, on our journey. Redeemed relationship with promise of future.More opportunities to trust and release. Life in the garden.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The light at the end of the tunnel- starts with a garden?
It will be four years in September. Bill died or came to life....on September 20, 2006. Some days it feels like yesterday and I need to ask him something. Other days, sad days- I have to look at a picture to remember his face. It feels like another life ago. And it was.
It was a good life, a great one on occasion. I was busy with homeschooling, gardening, keeping up with my life and the people who filled it. Trying hard at motherhood. Trying harder at marriage. It was all about my roles in relationship to the people who needed me. When I had a moment to think what I wanted from life, it felt self centered and somehow disloyal to my family. And I am grateful for the amazing fruit of those years of pouring into my family.
I am especially grateful for the fifteen months Bill and I had in the garden of cancer. Yes, a garden. A place of fruitfulness after a season of work. This particular garden where weeds of fatigue and fear threaten threaten to choke out any small, hopeful bloom. Where there was no reason to expect fruit. But every garden has its season and our time had great moments of peace, grace, unleashed love, happiness and joy. These were the rare and precious produce of that garden.
I love that old, rather sappy hymn "I Come to the Garden Alone". Childhood memories of a church with soft light on golden, peeled logs and sturdy, old hymns wind around my mind and are overlapped with memories of gardens I have wandered through. And He truly did "walk with me and He talked with me. And He told me I was His own.... and the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has every known."
Well, there goes the writing time. Off to work.. Part Two-the light at the end of the tunnel.
domani, doppa domani.
While the dew is still on the roses
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.
Refrain
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.
He speaks, and the sound of His voice,
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.
Refrain
I’d stay in the garden with Him
Though the night around me be falling,
But He bids me go; through the voice of woe
His voice to me is calling.
It was a good life, a great one on occasion. I was busy with homeschooling, gardening, keeping up with my life and the people who filled it. Trying hard at motherhood. Trying harder at marriage. It was all about my roles in relationship to the people who needed me. When I had a moment to think what I wanted from life, it felt self centered and somehow disloyal to my family. And I am grateful for the amazing fruit of those years of pouring into my family.
I am especially grateful for the fifteen months Bill and I had in the garden of cancer. Yes, a garden. A place of fruitfulness after a season of work. This particular garden where weeds of fatigue and fear threaten threaten to choke out any small, hopeful bloom. Where there was no reason to expect fruit. But every garden has its season and our time had great moments of peace, grace, unleashed love, happiness and joy. These were the rare and precious produce of that garden.
I love that old, rather sappy hymn "I Come to the Garden Alone". Childhood memories of a church with soft light on golden, peeled logs and sturdy, old hymns wind around my mind and are overlapped with memories of gardens I have wandered through. And He truly did "walk with me and He talked with me. And He told me I was His own.... and the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has every known."
Well, there goes the writing time. Off to work.. Part Two-the light at the end of the tunnel.
domani, doppa domani.
I Come To The Garden Alone
I come to the garden aloneWhile the dew is still on the roses
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.
Refrain
And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.
He speaks, and the sound of His voice,
Is so sweet the birds hush their singing,
And the melody that He gave to me
Within my heart is ringing.
Refrain
I’d stay in the garden with Him
Though the night around me be falling,
But He bids me go; through the voice of woe
His voice to me is calling.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
World Cup and Puppy dogs
This is so fascinating. I don't watch television, I'm not particularly fond of dogs, I don't even care for soccer. So why am I sitting in front of the television with a really cute little puppy watching the world cup? Mother love wins out over taking a nap or shopping or anything else I can imagine. I'd probably watch professional wrestling if that's how we could spend time together. Well, maybe not. Fortunately, that's not their taste either. Well raised young couple.
Either way it's lovely to be here in Norfolk on a quiet Sunday afternoon. We join the world watching NO one score in the biggest soccer game of the year and I join Steve and Abby in being entertained by their adorable little shiba inu puppy. We'll go out to a big band concert on the beach tonight and tomorrow I'll head back north to home.
I caught up on a few fun blogs and it made me realize how lovely it is to be 50 (ok 50+) and not be driven to be productive and get something done at all costs. I'm not good at relaxing and it as taken me most of my life to figure that out and how to really let myself rest. Mostly it involves leaving my house! So when I have the time, and God provides a place to escape to, I need to just go and really rest on a Sabbath. Even if it means watching the World Cup.
Either way it's lovely to be here in Norfolk on a quiet Sunday afternoon. We join the world watching NO one score in the biggest soccer game of the year and I join Steve and Abby in being entertained by their adorable little shiba inu puppy. We'll go out to a big band concert on the beach tonight and tomorrow I'll head back north to home.
I caught up on a few fun blogs and it made me realize how lovely it is to be 50 (ok 50+) and not be driven to be productive and get something done at all costs. I'm not good at relaxing and it as taken me most of my life to figure that out and how to really let myself rest. Mostly it involves leaving my house! So when I have the time, and God provides a place to escape to, I need to just go and really rest on a Sabbath. Even if it means watching the World Cup.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Seasons
Wow- so much for the discipline of daily writing! Oh well, life is full. Bad excuse.
I've just caught up on some blogs- my daughter's, her friends, the next generation. What fresh and funny voices speaking out into the world. I'm so inspired as I see their honesty and willingness to express themselves. I always thought my generation broke the whole "silent suffering" mold with our willingness to go to therapy and "address our issues" and "confront our lack of nuturing". Mostly dance with our inner child!
But these young women are vulnerable, wise, completely silly, profound, and shallow. All liviing life honestly, grappling with faith and marriage, and writing about it for the world to share- it seems to be a modern rite of passage to blog once you are married. I love it.
So what do I have to contribute to these fresh young voices? I feel old but wise, yet unheard- not because they don't want to hear what I say but because I don't say it. I still struggle with making the words perfect. Having something terribly profound to offer. Something completely original. What arrogance! My wisdom doesn't come from a life lived in a bubble but from the messes, the trials and the joys that I've stumbled through for the last 50+ years. Just as their words come from articulating their worlds, mine can come from sharing mine. Life has just as much to offer after 30 years of marriage as it did after 3. And perhaps I'm in a better frame of mind to receive.
Because that stumbling has become a bit of a confident stride some days. I like this seaons. I'm buying big jewelry at funky ethnic shops and fabrics from around the world that express my "the world's a wonderful place" mentality. I am treasuring the friendships of the women in my life more than ever . I'm beginning to enjoy the fruits of a life of faith, faith lived out in a frail human form that is filled with a spirit that is stronger.
I was talking with one of my sons and he expressed the responsiblity I have to not abuse the situation I find myself in. That makes it sound like I just woke up and "found" myself but I refuse to endlessly edit. And actually, in a way, I did wake up to find myself. I'm in a new season and it is a new wakefullness. Alone but not lonely. Provided for but not rich. A mother yet every month less of a care-giver. And always full of ideas, of ways to make a difference- to travel with intention, to create sacred spaces, to write, to speak, to be.
I've had three years to get over the shock of change, to parent the child, organize the paperwork, reorganize the brain- and I'm realizing that none of it will ever be a finished task. So... in the lack of perfect timing and circumstances, in the presence of an everloving Father; time to put pencil to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and see what happens.
I want to enjoy each season of my life. I don't wait until it's convienent to be who I'm supposed to be. To do what only I can do. Each day is full of possiblities. Mine's full of wonder at how life just gets fuller and fuller as the years fly by.
I've just caught up on some blogs- my daughter's, her friends, the next generation. What fresh and funny voices speaking out into the world. I'm so inspired as I see their honesty and willingness to express themselves. I always thought my generation broke the whole "silent suffering" mold with our willingness to go to therapy and "address our issues" and "confront our lack of nuturing". Mostly dance with our inner child!
But these young women are vulnerable, wise, completely silly, profound, and shallow. All liviing life honestly, grappling with faith and marriage, and writing about it for the world to share- it seems to be a modern rite of passage to blog once you are married. I love it.
So what do I have to contribute to these fresh young voices? I feel old but wise, yet unheard- not because they don't want to hear what I say but because I don't say it. I still struggle with making the words perfect. Having something terribly profound to offer. Something completely original. What arrogance! My wisdom doesn't come from a life lived in a bubble but from the messes, the trials and the joys that I've stumbled through for the last 50+ years. Just as their words come from articulating their worlds, mine can come from sharing mine. Life has just as much to offer after 30 years of marriage as it did after 3. And perhaps I'm in a better frame of mind to receive.
Because that stumbling has become a bit of a confident stride some days. I like this seaons. I'm buying big jewelry at funky ethnic shops and fabrics from around the world that express my "the world's a wonderful place" mentality. I am treasuring the friendships of the women in my life more than ever . I'm beginning to enjoy the fruits of a life of faith, faith lived out in a frail human form that is filled with a spirit that is stronger.
I was talking with one of my sons and he expressed the responsiblity I have to not abuse the situation I find myself in. That makes it sound like I just woke up and "found" myself but I refuse to endlessly edit. And actually, in a way, I did wake up to find myself. I'm in a new season and it is a new wakefullness. Alone but not lonely. Provided for but not rich. A mother yet every month less of a care-giver. And always full of ideas, of ways to make a difference- to travel with intention, to create sacred spaces, to write, to speak, to be.
I've had three years to get over the shock of change, to parent the child, organize the paperwork, reorganize the brain- and I'm realizing that none of it will ever be a finished task. So... in the lack of perfect timing and circumstances, in the presence of an everloving Father; time to put pencil to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and see what happens.
I want to enjoy each season of my life. I don't wait until it's convienent to be who I'm supposed to be. To do what only I can do. Each day is full of possiblities. Mine's full of wonder at how life just gets fuller and fuller as the years fly by.
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