The pull of Love

I wrote about the pull of the moon and decided to do a little research about what the scientific world has to say.  And turns out, the lunar effect has not be well substantiated.

Regardless of the reports of labor and delivery nurses, more babies are not born during a full moon. Crimes do not increase.  Sleep disruptions do not correlate with the moon phases. Our bodies are 75% water but we do not respond to the gravitational pull of the moon.  There are more injuries to dogs recorded but not to humans. No werewolves found either.  And if I wanted, I could cut and paste the same debunking language like 90% of the articles I read- "People get over it- we are not affected by the moon!"

Hmm.... can I chose to believe what my body tells me instead?

So that made me think about the other non-tangible, immeasurable factors in my life. The ones that cannot be "proved" by scientific data and analysis.  The wake up call in the middle of the night that has nothing to do with the phone, but puts you on your knees anyway.  I had a bout of waking up with such concern for a dear friend and it was many years later that I learned she had been in a very difficult season, just when I was compelled to pray. It was before internet, we had limited contact and lived half a world apart. But there I was in Japan, weeping for her and praying as best I knew how.

In my husband's final months on earth, I would sit and rub his feet and we would just be together. He didn't want to talk much about the inevitable and in some ways, I always felt a bit cheated out of the significant conversations I wanted to have. It wasn't an end of life scenario Hollywood or my imagination created but it was what he needed. To be touched, to be held, to have me quiet for once!   And in meeting his needs, in serving his desires- heaven became a slight shimmer away, for me, as well as him.  I've said before- heaven cannot not somewhere far away but somehow surrounds us who are still in this physical world. In those precious and fragile moments, I was so aware of the palatable presence of the unseen. We are exist in the unreal world and he was about to break through the thin veil and into the real.

What if the physical is the reflection,
not the true object? 

And none of my experiences can be proved or verified or reproduced in a lab. And I could care less. Science is invaluable for understanding parts of life but it fails in filling in the cracks where  the spiritual dimension leaks into the physical world,  like light under the door of a dark room.  And that glimmer gives me hope.

I've always longed to be understood and to have greater understanding in a variety of interests. With the Bible, I've studied a bit of Greek and Hebrew and love the etymology of words- where did that word come from, why do we understand that verse that way? What does that mean? Why does life happen the way it does?  I want to understand everything.

No longer. I understand enough to know that some things, the most important ones cannot be put under a microscope and dissected to complete knowledge. I don't need to know the one and only correct way to think or do, in fact, I'm not sure that's even a correct goal. Mystery no longer frustrates me, it intrigues me.  I wish I could tell Bill that he was right and he was never going to really get me- I don't get me anymore either!  But I can accept that. I can live with some ambiguity. Faith isn't about having all the answers, it's also about trusting enough to ask questions that may not have satisfactory answers.  It's more about having a candle illuminate a few steps ahead rather than insisting on a spotlight to reveal everything in one big flood of light.  And perhaps, it's my small candle that is most visible in another's darkness, leaking in under their closed door.  Most hopeful, most comforting.  We are not alone, there are small candles all around us.

So when I don't sleep during a super moon, I believe I may be responding to the moon- somehow. Somehow, I believe there is a another dimension to life that has nothing to do with death and suffering and unfulfilled longings.  I believe we are somehow, more than matter and DNA.  And someday, I will understand. And maybe, on that day, there will be the fullest moon of all, shining on me- pulling me toward Love.

To Him who made the great lights, 

For His lovingkindness is everlasting: 

The sun to rule by day,

 For His lovingkindness is everlasting, 

The moon and stars to rule by night, 

For His lovingkindness is everlasting.

Psalm 136

The pull of the moon.

Insomnia

Tidal ponds wax and wane with cycles of the moon,

rising, falling; increasing, decreasing.

Hanging luminous in the branches of a South Dakota tree,

super moon draws me from my bed,

Are the creatures of the sea sleepless

as well, as the moon tugs

us, from our comfort? KC

This week's super moon kept me up all night. As sleep eluded me, I wandered the porch and remembered my years in Italy.  



There was no air conditioning in southern Italy and the air hung still and heavy in the hot summer nights. I would slip into my daughter's room and will the thick metal door to open without its customary squeak. Then on tiptoe, I'd ascend the stairs to the patio, set on the flat roof.  Standing on cool cement, arms open for any breeze that might stir up from the nearby lake, I'd glare at the full moon.  

The Mediterranean Sea was merely a dark strip of water reflecting moonlight in the distance.  Under the bemused full moon, I would gaze in envy at the sleeping blocks around me and end with a long look south to the soft triangle of Mt. Vesuvius. It was thrilling during the day but in the midst of my night watch I only looked for any signs of its awakening. 

Familiar fear stirred in my gut and my dark questions trickled back. What would I take from my house if that dormant thing came alive and blew up? How much time would we have? Did I have fresh asthma medicine? Should we have a better air mask for him? Why did I live so far from home? 
What was wrong with me that I could not just return to my husband's arms and rest? 

Restless, exhausted, I lay down on the chaise lounge, the plastic straps already damp with dew, and curled into a ball inside my thin cotton gown. And waited for the moon to leave me alone. 

Faith Matures

The Lord turns my darkness into light. 

"Christian faith is a leap into the unknown. Experience confirms the wisdom of every act of trust. The alternation of the darkness of faith leading to understanding, and understanding leading to illuminating the darkness of faith is the normal way that leads to growth in faith. Like everyone else, God wants to be accepted as he is - and he happens to be infinite, incomprehensible, inexpressible.  We have to accept him, then, in the darkness of faith.  It is only when we can accept God as he is that we can give up the desire for spiritual experiences that we can feel.  Faith is mature when we are at ease without particular experiences of God, when his presence is obvious without our having to reflect on it. One who has this faith simply opens his eyes and, wherever he looks, finds God." Thomas Keating, The Heart of the World

Several nights ago, before I tried to sleep, I stood on the porch and watched the moon climb the ridge. The air was cool and fresh. Quiet and luminous. 

 Early in the morning, I tucked my feet into moccasins and pulled on a sweater against the chill. I got in my car and drove out of my neighborhood with parking lights and followed the moon to a forest trail. 

The moon set, the sun rose.  




Back home in my cabin, a world and a lifetime away from the chaos of Naples, I heard a lone log truck downshift before the turn and growl up the climb to the timber forests down the road.

I inhaled the sweet air and watched the light dance across the pasture. I sat quietly and sipped tea, at peace with the pull of the moon. Finally, finding God everywhere I look. 

You are my lamp, O Lord;

the Lord turns my darkness into light. 

2 Samuel 19:29 NIV

Wherever you go, there you are.

I blogged last year about making hay- feeling nostalgic and missing my farmer father, mowing a small patch of my world with my little red tractor. Ah... the romance of the west.

Whatever.

This year I have serious grass issues. The brome grass has grown over my head for the second year in a row and it chokes out all other grasses- native or introduced.  At that height, it eventually lays down and blessedly, dies in the fall.  But I no longer live in a climate where three feet of raked leaves rot down to four inches of compost overnight. And while I enjoyed the flower gardens of my previous home, even there I had no interest in growing grass, having a lawn or raking leaves off of it.

I came out west with the naive vision of low maintenance, maybe some native flowers.  No grass. I certainly didn't want seven acres of brome grass.  I knew what brome was- I grew up on a farm. But had no idea it was such an invasive, aggressive species of grass. And out here seven acres isn't big enough to bother making hay.  Add my dips and ditches and not one even wants to even mow it. Including me.  I may have the possibility of horses grazing soon but they won't eat tall, woody brome.

And way out west where the buffalo roam, five feet of thick grass, matted down several seasons in a row-  makes tinder, not compost.  Dry and dangerous, not damp and beneficial. I came west with one vision of what life would look like. The reality is- I'm still dealing with grass.

In moving around the world and now, as I transition from one life season to another- I've learned something.

You bring you with you, wherever you go. 

If you have "grass" issues in one place, unresolved baggage in the previous season- it comes with you.  God seems to be more interested in our emotional wholeness than we are.  So He allows us to pull that load around until we chose or are forced by circumstances to examine ourselves.  Take off that pack and examine what comes out.

This is probably a lame example but take my problems with grass. Or, as Rodney Dangerfield might say in my place, "Take my grass. Please!"   Is is more than just grass? My neighbor, Mr. My House is Safe Because I Mow Four Acres of Lawn, tells me my grass is a fire hazard. It may make my house less defensible- a dire, yet true threat out here.  I get it.

But I hate being like everyone else. I didn't want the perfect suburban lawn- it just worked out that our house wasn't visible from the street and no one ever forced us to mow the ditch by the creek up front. My husband would have loved a nice lawn and said so, but since I was the gardener and keeper of the lawn, I ignored him. Oh, I mowed the stuff but none of that fertilizing and weed killing and thatching and whatever. Now it seems petty, self-centered. A tactic to get my own way.

I've moved. I'm in a new season of life.  I look out cabin windows and love these sweeps of luscious grass waving in the breeze. It says I'm easy going, natural, earthy. It says I enjoy the prairie the way God intended.  Unlike my neighbors. And also that I'm choosing to forget that prairies only renew by periodic fires. That I'm ignoring the fact that one day there will be a fire close to me- the Black Hills national forest is full of trees killed by the pine beetle infestation. I can look over my amber waves and see dead trees.  Otherwise known as forest fire fuel.

I've changed my location,  entered a new season and I still want my own way. I don't want to do what others do- sometimes to my own detriment.  Maybe it's not about grass.  Maybe it's about God molding my natural inclinations to become more like Him. More willing to be part of a community, less the "You have to do it your way, don't you?" individual.  Oh, I'll always want to follow the different drummer and that was His design for me too.  But I can enjoy being unique, special, odd, creative, off the beaten track with my life.... and still have short grass.  I don't have to be afraid that my mowed lawn will dampen my personality or even creates some impression.  Really, at this stage in life- who cares what the neighbors think?

But when it comes time for protecting my home, keeping us all safer, not being a nuisance if there was a fire, bending my will to the betterment of my community, letting my creative light shine in another way.... mowing my grass is a small price to pay.

How about you? 

Life is always changing, we never know what tomorrow will bring.  

Travel light. 

Figure out some stuff. 

What is it that makes you dig in your heels? 

It'll be waiting for you in that next season!

Touching the fabric of time

It's 4am.

It's the night watch. The "middle of the night, why can't I sleep, if I don't get up and write I'll forget this" watch.  Last year I listened to a fascinating book on stages of consciousness, sleep being one stage, and the author explored the notion of the night watch. Now I refuse to call it insomnia or interrupted sleep and instead, enjoy a mid-night moment before I have my second sleep.  I just arrange time different on some nights.

http://slumberwise.com/science/your-ancestors-didnt-sleep-like-you/


Time isn't always as easy to manipulate. But sorting your stuff can do it too.

Last night we unpacked and touched, sorted and repacked all of my sister's Christmas decorations. Pudgy handprints on faded construction paper. Santa holding a tiny baby- both swathed in red velvet, in front of a wall of draped crimson.




 Four stockings and the brass letters of NOEL they always hung on.  Poignant pieces of family time.




We also found yards of garland, more resembling bright green, toilet bowl brushes than fragrant pine boughs.  Styrofoam balls wrapped in net and sequined in plastic.

 Candles past their prime.  

A broken Joseph from a nativity set she rarely viewed, let alone set in place of honor to celebrate the baby's birth.

Not everything we keep is treasure. 

We all have moments of transition where the old and new collide. 

We all fold the last baby blanket, toss the last soccer shoe, accept the flag from the fresh face soldier.  

We clean closets and pack up houses.  

Life is about our response to the changes along the way,  

and what we chose to bring with us,

 what we willingly or sorrowfully leave behind. 

She chose carefully. What would be a difficult reminder of loss?  What would ease them into a new normal, a sense they are still a family?  What did she want to carry forward into a new season?  What was only appropriate in this old life with soaring ceilings and open wood banisters and railings to swathe for the holidays?  While my sister's life may not ever appear, at least on the outside, this big again, time has proven to me that a large life doesn't always have to involve yards of plastic garland and nine foot Christmas trees.  She too will learn what brings spaciousness to her new world, what will be mourned and left behind for what is ahead.

A large life is a repository of the many small moments.

 A quiet glass of wine on a porch swing at the end of a long day. 

 Laughter around a meal carefully prepared with the guests in mind. Especially if guests are "just" family.  Bike rides to farmers' markets.  Wrapping in blankets and watching the sun rise, 

with a cup of tea.  Double rainbows. A baby's smell, a toddler's laugh.

And also Barbie houses and Christmas ornaments- transferred carefully from one life to another. Bringing one time into another.

This Present Moment

It's been a grueling few months.

My mom had surgery. I asked the surgeon, "What's the recovery time frame, what can she eat, what's the prognosis? What does her future look like? What do I need to do?"

My dear brother in law died. Just like that. Now I worry about my sister, "What will her future bring? What's she going to do? Can I help her, protect her, shield her? "

My daughter just moved and two of my three sons are moving this summer.  I talk to them and my questions aren't always spoken, "Who will be their neighbors, will they be friendly? Will they be able to sell their house, find another one, afford to live there?  Where should he store his stuff during grad school? How can I help?"

I don't dwell on the past. It's over. I've learned good lessons. Time to move on. But somedays I do dwell in the future more than I'd like to admit.  And it's not just the big crisis that occupy my mind. It's the small stuff, too. 

Someday I want to paint my laundry room cabinets.  But what color? How should I landscape my prairie yard? Will aspen trees grow here? Can I plant a spruce over there and when should I dig a hole for it? In the spring I get out there and dig in the dirt. When it's warmer, I want to paint more, maybe someday have a real art studio. Next winter, I want to try snowshoeing. Tomorrow I need to plan the next trip to see the kids.  On and on and on. 

Living in the future can go on and on. But we never arrive. We just plan or fret, wonder or worry. 

Messing around with grandchildren, or any other small people you aren't responsible for, is an excellent distraction from endless ruminations on the future.  Worrying about their future is their parents' issue.
You just get to play. 

My daughter and her family are visiting my South Dakota cabin. It's a bit tight- the stone fireplace is too close to the only seating area and sure enough, the baby girl bumped her head on the hearth and has a mark. The open log steps are a heart stopper when she decides to climb up them when no one is looking. But the big porch is great for the "chase me and I get to scream" game- her two year old brother's favorite.  

And this grandmother, known as Bebe to the adorable ones, is perfectly willing to create car tunnels from art journals, toss sidewalk chalk into the tall grass ( Yeah, two can play that game, Buddy...) and spit watermelon seeds off the balcony. 

I am fully present. 

Before my grandchildren were born, women friends waxed eloquently on the joys of grand-parenting and also their amazing sense of responsibility toward the next generation.  Kinda freaked me out.  I was wound a bit tight with my own babies and had a enormous, anxiety producing sense of responsibility toward my children. I don't check on them when they are sleeping, but somedays I wake up with a urge to call them up and see if they are ok,  make sure they are thriving. I don't. Usually. 

Now I just hang out and play.  I play cars with Mater and McQueen. (If you haven't watched Pixar Cars, check it out.)  


I kiss smooth bellies and that sweet spot behind soft ears and revel in grins and giggles.  I change diapers and marvel at baby dimples and sturdy toddler legs.  



I don't want them to grow up too fast but I have great confidence that when they do, they will be just fine. They are loved.  Just like me. 

Does He really delight in me like I delight in them?   Does he look at my dimples and sturdy legs and smile? Does he look at me and know that it will all be just fine?  When I run to him with open arms, does his heart swell too? 

Heaven will be heaven because it's always the present. Time is our way of ordering life in this place. It works but someday, it will pass away and we'll all be in the same moment.  Fully present, fully joyful, fully confident of being loved and loving.  Like little children.

Truly I say to you, 

unless you repent ( change, turn about) 

and 

become like little children (trusting, lowly, loving, forgiving), 

you can never enter the kingdom of heaven. Matthew 18:3 

I don't really understand repent but I can change, I can turn about, I can choose.... to be more present, more childlike, more prepared for that endless day when all I have to do is love. 

Leading, following,and being lost.

I went on a walk. Just thirty minutes for my heart health. I pumped my arms and walked briskly, panting slightly. I wrote an amazing essay in my head, looked up and realized I was completely... confused by my surroundings, unsure of my location, lost.  Again.

I was making great time, I just had no idea where I was heading.  I came to one of these and left the path, crossed the dry creek and had no idea where I was. So I kept going.

But it made me think- this is how we sometimes lead people when they are hurt, grieving, newly widowed.  We hustle along the path and take the shortcuts that may or may not help.   After all I know this path.....

 
  I can show you the rocks that are exposed in the floods so you don't slip when the waters rush by.

 I can point out the flowers and positives along the way. 

 I can identify this innocuous leafy spurge  which looks benign but threatens  many western grazing grounds.  I can also steer you away from the noxious weeds of self-pity and worry that threaten to consume your time and energy.  

"Look instead to the bright, the beautiful, the blooms amid the thistle," I instruct.

But what if my job is not to point the way?  

To steer, to warn, to protect.....  

What if my job is to walk along side and trust YOU to find YOUR way? 

 When the Psalms say, "He leads me besides still waters," the word lead means "to lead to a watering  station and cause to rest there."  I can't cause any one to rest-  I can't cause anything.  I can merely  walk along side and trust that the Shepard is providing still waters, causing rest, leading to life.
 Leading both of us.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, 

 leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul,

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for HIS name's sake. 

Psalm 23:2-3

There is no glory gained when I the leader. We can all walk with the grieving but it's not for our sake, it's for theirs.  We must allow them experience firsthand the wonder of the good Shepherd who protects His sheep, who encloses them at night and calls them out to fresh pastures each new morning.  He is the one who points out the safe passages, the noxious weeds, even the beauty. He is the one calling their hearts to trust and rest, to be at peace in the midst of the storm. 

Yes, sometimes we are be his hands and feet. But sometimes we're just as lost and wandering as well-  also needing a shepherd, all in this together.  

Waking up with Jesus.... and friends

My sister has been a widow for eighteen days.  Forever.

I know the exact dates because I called all the medical providers and told them the date of death, over and over.  And I finally know Dick's birthday- they needed that date too.  We all live between those finite bookends.

It's been eighteen days of agony and laughter, chaos and organizing, funeral and funny stories.  Photos still clutter the table in the living room window, people stop to sift through them and pause to remember.  Everyday I water peace plants, remove fuzzy orange stamens from pure white lilies, pull out the dead among the arrangements of flowers intended to comfort.

Mama is back to work. S is back in the city but returns to the nest this weekend. E is fragile, confessing that she can't sleep but trying to work, hating the attempt to be normal. When nothing is. It won't be normal for a long time.  And normal will never look the same.

In the midst, I make soup, sort mail, confer with my brothers, listen.  When they go to work, I clean out the pockets of neglected closets and the tangle of basement jetsam.  Which is the perfect description of all basements- the landing place for the debris that floats in from the sea - or last year's volleyball season or shared Christmases decorations or little girls' Barbie houses.  Life.



This week I am sleeping without a pill. I'm no longer waking up in the same panic that clutched me when I was a widow of eighteen days. I just wake up sad.  Her childhood friend called and asked how I was doing. If I'm triggered by this loss. What a interesting word- triggered.  An image from a firearm, a weapon- to pull the trigger, to set off an explosion, send a projectile into the world.  Or into your own interior.  Yes, I am triggered. I'll have to ponder that image and diffuse it.  Eventually.

Eight years ago I was so terrified the presence of my own vulnerable children only added to my panic. It took me several years to venture into my own basement to confront the reminders that our family life ended when he died. Now I know our family didn't end. It changed but life does go on.   Now I take strength in knowing these tasks must be done in this family and this reordering will be accomplished.  I know grace is everywhere around me.  I understand vulnerability is a gift to be cupped with gentle hands.

And today, I woke up with Jesus. The sky was a bit overcast, the sun soft on the pale green of spring.  Light trickled into my space and I woke slowly with hazy dreams.  And in my between sleeping and waking land, I was with Jesus. And Dick and Daddy and Bill.  It was good- peaceful but joyful. A smile crept in. And thought, 'what if I'm already in heaven?'

Death reminds us that we know very little.  I believe "we go somewhere" but what if that somewhere is not as far as it feels?  What if we are living in a reality that we are unaware of?  We pray "on earth as it is in heaven"- what if that's already happened and we are merely passing through to a new understanding, not a new place?

I don't know.  I don't even need to know. Answers aren't as important as the fragile peace that can infuse the not knowing.

I just know today was a good morning. I woke with loved ones alive and present, if only for a brief, hazy moment of a smile.