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.

Prayers for a son

What a night!  I sang with Michael Card in concert... well, he sang but invited the audience to sing his chorus.  Immanuel, our God is with us....

But what brought tears for me was his wonderful tribute to the man who changed the course of his life. Michael went to college to study forestry and "count birds".  But when he first heard Dr. William Lane teach on the Old Testament, he said, "I just wanted to be that man when I grew up."  And he changed his major to Biblical Studies and over the last thirty years has written over three hundred songs, many very familiar to those who follow Jesus and contemporary music. And all informed by his extensive biblical study.

So it was a professor- at a then small state college in Kentucky, who by his example and love for his students, changed the life of a forester into a song writer.  Dr. Lane preached at Michael Card's Christmas wedding  and his inspiring thoughts became the song lyrics we sang tonight.  A song many know and sing at the holidays, all these years later.

Immanuel

A sign shall be given a virgin will conceive

A human baby bearing undiminished deity

The glory of the nations a light for all to see

That hope for all who will embrace His warm reality

Immanuel our God is with us

And if God is with us who could stand against us

Our God is with us

Immanuel

For all those who live in the shadow of death

A glorious light has dawned

For all those who stumble in the darkness

Behold your light has come

Immanuel our God is with us

And if God is with us who could stand against us

Our God is with us

Immanuel

So what will be Your answer? Will You hear the call?

Of Him who did not spare His son but gave Him for us all

On earth there is no power there is no depth or height

That could ever separate us from the love of God in Christ

Immanuel our God is with us

And if God is with us who could stand against us

Our God is with us

Immanuel

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xoJHYgicA8M

So why the tears? 

Looking very... professorial, perhaps? 

Tomorrow my son will defend his doctor of philosophy dissertation, another step to his desired goal to be a college professor. He wants to speak into the lives of young people- those who think they have their lives planned out and to those who can't think beyond the lies their past would have them believe.  Scott wants to be a "Dr. William Lane" even though, most likely, he's never heard of him.  His heart is to teach students to think carefully and love deeply.  To be foresters who write music or musicians who remember when they wanted to count birds. To change lives. 

On social media, it seems to be acceptable to post adorable pictures of grandchildren or our babies. Somehow it feels unseemly to publicly celebrate the accomplishments of our adult children and I certainly appreciate that.  But Scott texted the family and we responded with,"We'll be praying!"

I am as proud as any parent of my children and the adults they are becoming, the spouses they have introduced to the circle and the knowledge that they will open their hands to whoever else God brings into our family. Especially the ones who come in tiny packages! And of course, now I will have to give the rest of the amazing kids their day in the sun. 

  

Scott's the tall one. The one who's about to be too cool for the rest of us.
How quickly those years flew by!

Today, I want to say to Scott, 

 Immanuel .....our God is with us- 

And if God is with us 

who could stand against us

Our God is with us

Immanuel !!!

God is with you. He is with you tomorrow as you defend your work. He is with you as you set out on the next stage of the journey. He is with you as you become, more and more, a man after his heart. 

And for the rest of us- pray for Scott tomorrow! 

God is with us- Immanuel! 

The Table of Remembrance

I took my mother to a Maundy Thursday service at a local church. It's a traditional time to remember the Last Supper but for us nonconformist Protestants, the service varies. Wildly. I started to say widely but I do think wildly is the better choice.

We went forward twelve at a time to share in a simple communion service. I wish I had a great story of a wild Maundy Thursday messy foot washing or living last supper where someone fell asleep.  It's fitting- if we are remembering the same night, the disciples fell asleep after their meal. That was after the last supper they would ever have with the teacher they adored.

Did they know it was their last supper?

Tonight this pastor had us close our eyes and think of a past meal. Where were we? Describe the room, the food, the conversation. All wonderful prompts to savor again a shared feast.  I wanted to remember a time that featured my mother's extraordinary pie crusts.  But as hard as I tried, it was the image of a picnic bench by a river that finally wrestled my attention into submission.

I remembered not the sound of family conversations but the noise of city traffic and our frantic silence.  I don't see a familiar dining room or well worn table but instead, a city picnic bench, along a sidewalk that winds along a wide river.  The dinner is from a local grocer with unusual and healthy raw salads and a soup without meat.  It is spring and once again, Washington D.C. has burst with cherry blossoms. They float down around us like pale pink feathers.  It's a warm April day, near Easter.  It is the day we have been given of the diagnosis of cancer. 

In her meditation, tonight's pastor referenced a quote by Kathleen Norris that I will have to paraphrase. Ms. Norris' thought was that any sharing of food points to the final meal. The sharing of bread and wine, or pizza and beer also can be a reminder of what we all can anticipate. Not the Last Supper but the wedding feast of the Lamb.  We gather around the table of remembrance over and over- to refresh the story in our minds, to ponder the sacrifice. And when we ponder our stories,  there is often a table, or a picnic bench, in those stories as well.

My mother remembered a particular Easter spread we shared with her extended family and if I thought long enough, I could probably reconstruct the foods in my head. Jello salad with shredded carrots or perhaps crushed pineapple- molded into fluted domes and perched on a single leaf of iceberg lettuce. Scalloped potatoes and the inevitable ham, which if served at this particular cousin's home, was festooned with maraschino cherries ringed with a pineapple slice.  There would be sweet potato casserole and green beans and my mother's glorious pies.

Just writing that brings back murmurs of conversation, the feel of hefty amber glasses with their fancy diamond pattern, the clink of company silverware, the nervous energy of our hostess, the snores of satisfied men an hour later.  I remember.  Those people come alive again and I am back in childhood- one of the sweet memories. A moment to savor.  

And another meal to anticipate. For it wasn't the disciples' last supper with Jesus after all.  And it wasn't the last time I will break bread with all the people I love, who no longer live in this reality. The glory of Easter is the remembrance that this life is temporary. These meals are over and done so quickly.  But we can remember.


And in that memory, we can look forward with joy.

Now we see things imperfectly,

like puzzling reflections in a mirror,

but then we will see everything with perfect clarity.

All I know now is partial and incomplete,

but then I will know everything completely,

just as God now knows me completely. 

I Corinthians 13:12

Walking in the light of his presence

I occasionally dip my toe into the identity of "writer".... and pray no one asks, "Have I read your work?"
"Probably not."
End of conversation.

So why is it that the Muse that often comes and smacks me in the head, holds a camera, not pen and paper?  I don't introduce myself as "photographer".

But when I wake and the South Dakota light is moody, overcast and sullen, I'm overcome by the urge to capture it. Perhaps because the sun is such a constant here, although I do jump in my car and chase sunset light of summer.  Whatever the cause, my Muse caused me to miss church and head for Pe Sla or Reynolds Prairie or the "place in between".

Many First Nations peoples consider the Black Hills to be the spiritual center of the universe. Various spiritual traditions reflect the belief that certain phenomena in the world, such as mist – which is neither air nor rain; dreams – which are not waking or sleeping; and mistletoe -which is neither tree nor plant, have special spiritual meaning. These are the "in between things" that are worthy of special reflection. 

http://www.borderlandsranch.org/about.htm

So I go to the place between sunshine and dark, between moody and reflective, between God and me. And I take photos.   I return home with freezing fingers and the hunger of creative anxiety; make a fire and warm oatmeal. It may be April but three inches of fresh moisture lays on the ground.

And I find a bookmark, given by a friend:

"Happy are those who hear the joyful call to worship,

for they will walk in the light of your presence, Lord."

Psalm 89:15

I drove around the lake....

By the cattails. Frozen in place, waiting for spring. 

The road to worship isn't always the super highway. 

An the journey isn't desired to be traveled alone.
This is Linda's place.

She lives on the edge of Pe Sla and fights to protect it from development. 

 I leave her home, snug in a small valley, and climb into the wind.

Timeless

Empty; and full of peace. 

Here a lone tree is noticed. 

My drive took me past the lake and Linda's house, then across the edge of the place in between.  Now the road follows a stream as it twists through a canyon.



Trees are abundant here.  The camera is unable to distinguish the fragile from the background. Do we see what is truly there in our images?

Then I am back on the smaller prairie on the other side of the canyon.  Here man has tamed the land and guards his own. But even a cattle guard is soft and thoughtful in white. 

I'm home. Refreshed and inspired to write, work on some poems, express myself. pray, worship. It doesn't always look like this but worship doesn't have to be what I always thought. What I expect and search for.  Somedays, it's enough to follow my heart and walk in his presence.  Or drive somewhere and imagine; capture images and ponder.

 Now a warmer wind softly brings promise of spring;  snow melts in a gurgle.  It is a sweet Sabbath.

Prairie art.

And this is just for fun!