Incarnation

All night rain pounded on the copper roof, by morning the ground was soaked and puddled. Instead of riding my bike to church, I drove and still arrived late. I tried to slid inconspicuously into a back pew but was quicly aware I was the only woman wearing jeans. And boots.  Clearly not the liturgical dress code in Charleston, South Carolina.  I was instantly my own biggest distraction.

So I sat and took sermon notes, followed the Scripture readings, joined in the prayers but as we settled into preparation for the Eucharist, my heart wasn't really receiving.  My head was engaged but I needed move from watching to participating, from ritual to worship.

How often do I watch without participating? 

How much as I unaware of the holy? 

Do we see Him? Our God made Man. 

Incarnate, in-carne, Latin for in-flesh

Incarnation:  a concrete or actual form of a quality or concept;

This is also incarnation-  an idea made palpable.  The Incarnation of Christ brings the Word, the Light of the World, into our physical and corporeal world.  Are there other times when mere ideas can become tangible?  Does God continue to reveal Himself to us in transforming ways?



As I knelt in a musty chapel, that very moment became incarnational.  For as the people began to rise pew by pew and make their way to the altar,  the music changed.  Instead of the organ and small, quavering choir, a piano introit softly began "O Holy Night." I knelt and waited.

                                            O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining, 

It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth. 

Long lay the world in sin and error pining. 

Till He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth. 

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, 

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. 

Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices! 

O night divine, O night when Christ was born;  

O night, O Holy night, O night divine.

A angelic voice was pouring from a young man bent over piano keys, his long blonde hair falling over his eyes.  His voice filled the space and my heart heard.  I became aware.  The weekly ritual of worship was transformed for me.  For this moment, awe hung in the very air. The ordinary became holy. A normal action now infused with beauty.

Truly He taught us to love one another, 
His law is love and His gospel is peace. 

Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother. 
And in his name all oppression shall cease. 

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we, 
With all our hearts we praise His holy name. 

Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we, 

His power and glory ever more proclaim! 
His power and glory ever more proclaim!

The music washed over us and people slowly made their way forward to receive. My thought?, "This is amazing music. This is an extraordinary moment.  They don't appear amazed or impressed. Can't they hear this music or feel the charge in the air?"

How often does God show up and we miss him? 

Can we miss the ordinary transformed to extraordinary?  

Or does God sometime just reach down and touch a moment for us, 

 a personal gift, 

a kiss of His love?

I learned the young man was their contemporary worship leader, perhaps the congregation hears him sing all the time.  But for me, the unexpected sound led to a holy moment. My worship experience was transfused with glory, his music incarnated holiness and beauty for me.



The music ended. We read the final prayer together and made our way out of the chapel. The moment was over. The rain had stopped and the sun was back. The world continued. But I'm looking for the next moment.

O Holy Night. 

O Holy Moment.

His power and glory ever more proclaim. 

"With Peace on Earth, Good-will to Men!"

It's been a very full two weeks back in Virginia-  visiting with old friends, meeting new. I've attended wonderful concerts, done more shopping than I probably needed and had much more pampering than I ever expected.  My hostess is extraordinarily generous and I've enjoyed fabulous food, a quiet room and gifts galore.   But most of all she and I have had lots of long conversations and quiet reflections.

That's what I'll remember from this trip. Heart to heart communication- the beauty of community. Rich and deep and heartfelt. Silly and full of belly laughs. Tears and touching hands.

I've attended a memorial service and shared in the sorrows of several dear friends. Pain and death are an affront in this season of "Ho, Ho, Ho" but there is always death before new life, before resurrection. Christmas is the birth of a Holy Baby, but that birth leads to the cross and death .

 I sat with my friend in the shadow of her pain. The bells rang and the choir sang-

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

We no longer sing the two middle verses but Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote this classic holiday carol during great personal and national tragedy. A few years earlier, his wife had died from a fire that scarred Longfellow's face. Then he brought his young son home with his own scars from the Civil War.   There was sorrow and suffering in his life but Longfellow could eventually look forward- to the peace we all long for.

http://communities.washingtontimes.com/neighborhood/

civil-war/2011/dec/22/civil-war-beauty-tragedy-i-heard-bells-christmas-d/

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

                                   
 Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

"God is not dead nor doth he sleep, The Wrong shall fail, the Right prevail" does not happen without the sorrows of the Cross. Peace on earth comes from the goodwill of God but it came with a price. He came to share our human experience, including suffering.  We don't want to accept pain and rejection. We don't want to embrace suffering. But only when the seed, buried in the cold, dark earth, is split open can new life come forth.

Peace on earth- peace in our hearts and lives....only comes when we can embrace the death that leads to the life we crave. Like a seed buried and transformed by spring,  our story doesn't have to end in sorrow from the death of our loved ones, marriages, or dreams.  From that death, new life can come again.

                                 

So let the bells ring. 

And for those who are cannot rejoice in the bells this Christmas Day, 

   

I bless you with peace

and

 pray you good-will.

Someone had to say Yes!

Gabriel's Message is a Christmas carol unfamiliar to me.... and this is my pondering.

As we anticipate the celebration of Christ's first coming, someone had to say yes. 

"Yes" to the unknown, the out of the box, the dangerous.  Maybe if an angel showed up in my life I'd agree to the possibility of public humiliation, the loss of cherished relationships, even the threat of my death.  

All these Mary faced as an unmarried woman, a pregnant virgin trying to explain to her beloved that she was still pure. That God had showed up after she had spoken to an angel. 

We know God would give Joseph a dream, we know Joseph's willingness to let Mary go to her cousin Elizabeth and return to their small village in an obvious state of pregnancy. Mary didn't know.  We know that the babe in Elizabeth's womb would leap for joy and the women would rejoice together in the confirmation of God's miracle. 

Mary didn't know.

But she said "Yes!"

I want to say yes. 

I want to trust God to speak in me, not to just wait for a visible angel to show up and reveal himself.  Maybe the kind strangers, the near misses, the safe delivery from childbirth or even long, wearying car trips  involves angels.  Invisible guardians and messengers. 

As Bill lay dying, heaven was no longer up there and far away. Eternity and the revelation of the Spirit world shimmered close to his bed. I closed my eyes and almost felt the brush of angel wings.  Some days still, heaven fills my small piece of this world and I remember. 

And despite the Christmas carols that celebrate the idea that the angels descended, perhaps they just pulled back the fragile veil between the seen and unseen and the shepherds became aware. 

I want to be aware. 

Join me this season, this precious season of possibilities 

- when we say "YES!"

Gabriel's Message

  

The angel Gabriel from heaven came

His wings as drifted snow his eyes as flame

”All hail” said he “thou lowly maiden Mary,

Most highly favored lady,” Gloria!

 “For know a blessed mother thou shalt be,

All generations laud and honor thee,

Thy Son shall be Emanuel, by seers foretold

Most highly favored lady,” Gloria!

 Then gentle Mary meekly bowed her head

”To me be as it pleaseth God,” she said,

”My soul shall laud and magnify his holy name.”

Most highly favored lady. Gloria!

 Of her, Emanuel, the Christ was born

In Bethlehem, all on a Christmas morn

And Christian folk throughout the world will ever say:

”Most highly favored lady,” Gloria!

http://www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/gabriels_message.htm

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GF2BzUDeTkY

Tis the season .... for the oil of gladness

I'm traveling and that means I only take what I really think I need. And inevitably, I end up questioning why I brought those pants and where are those shoes, etc. And my small beauty regimen is pared down to the very basics.  But as a woman of a certain age! it does include a variety of small bottles of oil.

There's argan oil which is elixir for fragile skin- I've recently discovered that I'm not just "fair" aka, pasty white, but my skin is considered the rare "red-head skin."  I would have laughed at the woman had she not described my thin, easily bruised, prone to fungus, dry skin to a tee. So I watch my ingredients and smooth on drops of oil from Morocco. Hmm.... how many red-heads live there?

Then there's a sample of miracle oil to fade an annoying age spot- so far, no miracle. I have jojo oil for my body and drops of Melalucca oil for my toes. I have a persistent earache that has it's own little bottle. I'm the traveling snake oil purveyor!

But during this sweet visit with dear friends, I am slathered and soaked in the oil of friendship.  I slipped and slid in belly laughs with an old friend- what a joy to reconnect and howl with laughter at old jokes that only she and I could embrace.   I sit right now in front  of a fire and enjoy the rich oil of friendship and fellowship with my hostess.  Yesterday my cup overflowed. What beauty in sharing the oil of joy pressed from adversity and suffering.  Friendship is truly the oil of gladness.

And it is Christmas,

 the Season of gladness. 

God's friendship toward us. 

God with us, Emmanuel. 

I am burdened by many customs of the American Christmas season but one blessing that comforts me year after year is the music.  Classical choral music rejoices "Angels We Have Heard on High" and proclaims "O Holy Night".  Even politically correct NPR proclaims, "In a Bleak Midwinter" "Love Came Down at Christmas".  I LOVE hearing God's love and Christ's birth piped into grocery stores, malls and filling stations. My eyes always fill up at "I'll be Home for Christmas." and I can go the rest of my life without hearing "Jingle Bell Rock" but I'm weird enough to chuckle at "Grandma got run over by a Reindeer". Sick, I know.


Last  night was a incredible treat. Not only did I enjoy a ride with a dear friend to the concert, I was drenched in the oil of joy with the magnificence of exceptional choral music. I hope to sit quietly with the lyrics and replay the melodies that are still lingering in my mind. We packed a beautiful old church and I wanted to shout at the audience, "Do you have ANY idea of the quality of this music?!!" I love my life in South Dakota and appreciate the classic music I can get but to hear the finest voices and brass players in our nation's capital was such a feast for my ears.  http://www.fairfaxchoralsociety.org/


So I woke this morning and did my little oil rituals. I smile to remember my conversations over these last few days. I hum snatches of Christmas carols.  And I suspect the Babe in the Manger looks down where He lay, this earth that marches to its own tune most of the year, and smiles.  For the sweet aroma of praise and adoration in our Christmas carols floats up to heaven.  Rejoice, REJOICE, Emmanuel- shall come to thee.....


Do we hear the music? Do we pause to listen? I try to care for my body but it's also my soul that needs the soaking and pampering in this season.  Quiet times with dear friends, glorious music, pausing to ponder, waiting for the Day.  This is the oil of life and love, the oil of gladness.

Love came down at Christmas, Love all lovely, Love divine;

Love was born at Christmas; star and angels gave the sign.

2

Worship we the Godhead, Love incarnate, Love divine;

worship we our Jesus, but wherewith for sacred sign?

3 

Love shall be our token; love be yours and love be mine;

love to God and all men, love for plea and gift and sign.

http://www.hymnary.org/text/love_came_down_at_christmas 

Thanksgiving and Actions of Grace

It's almost Thanksgiving Day. 

 This year I'll be with my daughter and her family. I'm sending cards to the rest of my family and I confess I didn't carefully chose cards. I was zipping through a store, grabbed a package of six and plan to add a message....

But the message to me was on the package itself.   It was labeled, "6 thanksgiving cards", translated into French- "cartes de l'action de graces."  Grab and run, wait.... What did that say?

cartes de l'action de graces

The French don't celebrate Thanksgiving. The  Pilgrims didn't land on their shores aiming to form "a City upon a Hill". Years ago they didn't celebrate survival with a feast or include their native benefactors.  But they do have a word for our Thanksgiving Day and I love it... l'Action de grâces, 

 The thanksgiving prayer said before or after a meal is simply "les grâces."

An act of thanksgiving is called "une action de grâce(s)." 

Note that the word "grâce" can be singular or plural. 

When referring to the holiday held in the U.S. on the fourth Thursday in November

 and in Canada on the second Monday in October, only the initial "a" is capitalized.  

Thanksgiving (the holiday) l'Action de grâces, la fête de l'Action de grâces - 

Thanksgiving Day- le jour de l'Action de grâces

http://wiki.answers.com/Q/How_do_you_say_Thanksgiving_in_French

The French words gave me a pause.  In America we say, "Happy Thanksgiving!" and "What are you thankful for?" or "This season I'm going to list what I'm thankful every day."  While we should be thankful, grateful for God's provision, in our culture a traditional symbol of the season is the cornucopia. The curved horn of plenty spills a variety of fruits and vegetables out of it's woven basketry. 

Harvest. Abundance. Affluence.  

"Thank you, God. You've given me so much. 

You are a good God because You've given me so much. 

My life is full and obviously You are responsible."   

Yay, God. 

Gather 'round the table and let's eat. 

So what’s this “l’action de graces”?   You don’t have to be bilingual to translate that phrase. Thankful in French is reconnaissant, “to recognize or acknowledge” and that’s another gem to ponder. But thanksgiving is translated action of grace.  How perfect!  Gathering in forms of community to show our gratitude is an action.  And His grace is always shown in His actions toward us- even when the table is old, the food is scarce or the people are absent or estranged. It’s still an act of grace when the Hand of God isn’t open with abundance but instead offers the intimacy of suffering and sorrow.

   

The goal of our lives cannot be merely the correct emotions of gratitude and thankfulness. Like his our actions also must reflect grace.  If we maintain our calm when attacked, we call it "grace under fire." There are times in my life when I feel attacked, I feel abandoned, I feel disappointment.  I can cover those emotions with my veneer of gratitude and thanksgiving- a spiritual "fake it until you make it." Except I'm missing what I'm supposed to be making.  The goal is not ease, the goal is holiness and actions that reflect the Holy One within us.

And it's those times of human weakness when my actions are not actions of of grace.  I act in self-defense when offended. I retreat into silence rather than acting out the difficult grace of breaking the impasse with my offender.  I act in fear when I wake in the night and my aloneness smothers me like a heavy blanket. In the darkness, I simply have no capacity to extend grace to my own frightened self.   I act in self-pity when life is unfair and my actions are not graceful service. When I refuse the life I'm offered, I'm refusing to embrace Him, refusing to extend grace back.

So what is the blessing of Thanksgiving? 

The One to whom we offer our thanks is always acting in grace.  

**********

Grace moves toward reconciliation 

without expectation of being right or understood.

All this is from God, 

who through Christ reconciled us to himself 

and gave us the ministry of reconciliation;  

2 Corinthians 5:18

**********

 Grace is sufficient, 

for His strength fills our weakness.  

My grace is enough; it's all you need. 
My strength comes into its own in your weakness.
The Message 2 Corinthians 12:9 

**********

Grace looks for ways to serve. 

Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom which cannot be shaken,

let us have grace, by which we may serve God acceptably

with reverence and godly fear. Hebrews 12:28

May this Thanksgiving be full ..... of  abundance 
and
actions of grace, 

especially

in the small places of our lives.

Falling in love

Dear Ann fLanders, 

I'm in love with a younger man. He's much shorter than me, refuses to sit still for photos and throws things at everyone. I love to write and have long discussions on philosophical and spiritual topics; he has a very limited vocabulary and makes up gibberish all the time. I love to read but he's pretty much stuck on three books and insists on having them read over and over.  He's also very attached to his stuffed animals, I don't even have or want to have a dog.  I'm a gourmet cook, he prefers peanut butter. Straight from the jar, with a plastic spoon.  Do we have a future? 

PS- he's eighteen months old.  And adorable. And he seems very tender toward other women in his life. 

Signed, 

Besotted

Starting off the day.

It's 7 AM.
Breakfast is done and Dad's cover (that's a cap for you civilians) is the toy of choice.

And "No, I will NOT sit still and look cute for the camera. Do your best, Bebe!"

He was so cute cuddling with his stuffed animals....
this is right before he suddenly decided to jump off the couch.
Photo op over. 

Notice the blur. The only thing that doesn't move in this picture are the animals.

And they were thrown from the couch.
He's not to be trusted- cuddle bunny one moment, curmudgeon the next. 

But who can resist that face!

He does look a bit mischievous doesn't he,
Remember, it's now about 7:15 am. 

Dad's going off to work and to "support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies,
foreign and domestic"

Oorah!
Don't forget your boots.  

Quick!
Climb up on the back of the couch!


Gotta say "Bye, bye.  Later."

Wave at Daddy.

And the big white truck and the little red car and the green car and the black truck and the....

 oooh... . a YELLOW SCHOOL BUS!

7:35 AM

Dear Besotted,

Of course you have a future.  He's clearly adorable and irresistible. If I didn't have my own perfect grandchildren, I'd be tempted to steal yours.  Enjoy. These years will pass as quickly as your own children's toddler years did.

He won't always want you to blow on his round belly or soap up his soft back. Luckily the diapers don't last forever so enjoy those sturdy little baby buns while you can. Be willing to snuggle up with Mr. Tiger and Mr. Bear and the rest of the goofy stuffed animals.  They get put in the back of the closet soon enough.  He'll learn to eat more foods- if you're as good a cook as you think you are, you can teach him to cook!  And think of all the cool restaurants you can take him to.  As well as the zoo, the beach, climbing on those great rocks around your cabin, exploring the mountains you love so much.

The same with all the books you want to share with him. He'll eventually expand his literary repertoire, especially if you keep sending him books all the time.  And soon enough you can read all YOUR favorites to him.  Be patient. There will come a day when he will sit still. Or not- then you can put them on a podcast for him while he bounces through life!

As for those other women... I believe one is his younger sister, always a sign of a true gentlemen that he is tender and sweet toward her. He has responsibilities there.  As for his mother....in some relationships I do advise caution when a man seems too attached to his mother. But in this case you have nothing to fear. She seems very wise and able to share him with you. I suspect you two will have years to perfect your mutual admiration society of this handsome young gentleman.

Sincerely,
Ann fLanders

PS- get used to the photo struggle. It's a good challenge to try to take good photos with a moving subject.

Caught in a quiet moment of contemplation.


What do toddlers think about?

How to make their grandmothers fall in love!

Waiting for Noelle. It's all fine.

Well, pretty baby girl. Bebe is waiting for you today.  It's been a bit nerve-wracking. Jesus is teaching me to trust Him with all of my precious loved ones- even ones I don't know yet.

When your mama told me you were coming, I was just a little, well, freaked out.  You won't read this until you are old enough to know me so you'll already know that I can freak out pretty easy. Or maybe by the time you are old enough to read this, I will be so full of Jesus that I'll be cool, calm and collected. All the time.

By now you know that your mama didn't do so well when your brother was born. It was a mess. And Bebe was a BIG mess.  I LOVE my baby girl- that would be your mama and I LOVE your brother and I LOVE your daddy.  I didn't want anything bad to happen to any one of them.  And it could have been so much worse....  and that's what I remembered when I heard you were on the way.

So you are part of God's gift to me. The gift of embracing my fear. Of choosing to lean in close and figure out what fear means. Of sitting quietly and thinking back to when I was a little girl and bad stuff happened to me. Wow- sounds scary but it wasn't.  This has been a wonderful year. A year of learning how much God loves me. How much He wants to heal me way down deep. Of how much he protected me when I didn't know He was there.


So today your mom and dad took pillows and diapers and little, tiny pink clothes and a brand new car seat and headed off to the hospital for another surgery.  And I got to stay here and trust Jesus all over again.  It helped that I had Josiah to distract me.   He had his breakfast waffle and we watched his baby DVD. Hope you like them- he definitely knows which ones HE likes.





Then we put on our bike helmets and went for an explore on my bike. Bebe needed some exercise- a bit of nervous energy crackled in the house today.  We found a park where I took a bunch of blurry photos of your brother, mostly the back of his head, because he won't stand still.

And he climbed UP a slide that had a puddle of water on it and got all wet. 



And then he swung out and fell off a platform in the big kid's playground equipment.  And got shredded wood junk up his runny nose and all over his wet clothes.  It was time to go home. And change his outfit- again.




He finished up his waffle, ate some toast with peanut butter, had half a banana and some yogurt.  Then he proceeded to run around like a crazy boy and laugh and throw stuffed animals.  Obviously he knows something is up. YOU are coming!  And his world will never be the same.

Mine won't either.  I love my kids but I'm crazy about Josiah and Mariam and now YOU.  My heart is tender toward you little peanuts in a whole new way. I was too busy with life when I was the young mama with my own babies- now I can just sit on the kitchen floor with an eighteen month old toddler clad just in his diaper and eat yogurt together and be fine.  Really fine- happy and content fine.  Excited to meet another little person who will call me Bebe fine. Grateful in my heart fine.

PS- and I'm not even afraid. Because my world won't be the same either.

PPS- Uh... let's not tell Mom about the fall. He's fine.

PPSS- I think I'll have a little peanut butter and Nutella while I wait. That's fine, too.

Just hanging out.
Waiting for Noelle! 

Remembrances and new life

I'm on Camp Lejeune, North Carolina awaiting the arrival of a granddaughter.  This place always brings back so many memories- I spent six years here as a young military wife.  I had three babies here; we bought our first home and made friends for life.

And I found out that Christians are not divinely protected from tragedy.

My husband was a helicopter pilot and we buried some fine young men.  And thirty years ago, a dear friend from our small group died in Beirut, Lebanon.  On October 23, 1983, two hundred and forty one service Marines, sailors and soldiers died when a vehicle bomb exploded in their four story barracks. It was early in the morning when many were still asleep.  The bomber knew their schedules, his truck was familiar.  One source said the result was the largest non-nuclear explosion since World War II. http://shar.es/EYxYs

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beirut_Memorial

But for our little group in Jacksonville, it was personal.  And for me, it has become a small glimpse of God's grace, a strange lesson but it's what I have carried with me.  On October 16, a week before the many deaths from the truck bomb, our dear friend died in Beirut. He was a good man who went with a peacekeeping force and was shot by a random sniper. He left a toddler and a young pregnant wife in North Carolina and went to serve his country.  Ben was born after his dad left and was four months old when his dad died.  Everyone from President Ronal Reagan to the Good Morning America crew to the wives in the 24th Marine Amphibious Unit called or visited his widow and marveled at her quiet faith, her sweetness in the light of her tragedy.

All military wives wonder, "What would be my reaction if....?"  And within that same week, many of the military wives who paid respects to her were widowed themselves.  But they had just seen the compassion of Jesus surrounding and pouring out from one of their own. Only God knows ripples from the faith she modeled.

The years have gone on, our lives have marched forward but our friend's widow did not have a "happily ever after."  She struggled with her children, the guilt of new wealth, poor financial advisors, health issues, all compounded by grief and loneliness.   Perhaps that was the tragedy that touched me the most- I didn't witness many widows live out the rest of their lives but this one was not the picture of a divine bubble of protection.  The evil of the world still reached out and touched a vulnerable life.  Life proved not fair.  Young men die in war, middle age men die from disease.  But while life isn't fair and will never the same, life can be good.

Tomorrow on the 30th anniversary of Mike's death, my granddaughter, Noelle Kathryn, will be born. Ironically she will come into this world on the very same military base that sent those young men to keep peace and pay with their lives.   Mike never knew his son. My husband never knew his son-in-law or his grandchildren. He will not know this sweet baby girl.  It doesn't seem fair.  But as all widows know - life goes on and you have the choice to join in and live again.   God does not override the evil of this world to keep His people in bubble wrap.  But He does continue to give good gifts.

One good gift is memory. My son in law joined several hundred others and ran the annual Beirut Memorial 10K last Saturday. Marines remember the day in October when a coward in a truck blew up their own.  Mike's family and friends remember him. I remember the community life we shared and the love he had for his young family.  I remember the grace his widow showed in her darkest hour.

So on this overcast, dreary evening in coastal Carolina, I am grateful.  Grateful for the memories of my season of young motherhood and for old friends, however brief some of those relationships were.  I'm grateful for the joy of grandchildren, however bittersweet it is to ponder how much Bill would have loved these little peanuts.   And I'm grateful that I've learned God's heart toward me is always good. This world is but a brief sojourn before the better stuff that comes next.

My wild-child grandson leaps off practically everything and just before he launches, he jabbers, "One, two, free...!" Yes, it takes a careful ear to understand his words.  But if we listen carefully, we too will someday hear the joyful welcome- and we can jump into the place where we will understand everything.


Meanwhile, there's a new life to welcome.

A flood, a bird, an epiphany?

It all started when the Colorado downpours saturated the ground and created a moat around my sister’s window well and then breached the “dam”.  As those things fill up with water, the windows have no chance. Water rushed in.

That was three weeks ago while I was there for a couple of days.  While my brother-in-law and I tried to keep the craziness to a minimum, furniture was moved and stuff shuffled around or more honestly, tossed aside. My sister works more hours than I knew were available in a week so the basement was already typical, American storage space and well, disorder. It was the classic- “One of those days I’m going to tackle the basement”.  Frankly, after the mini-flood the basement became complete chaos. One easy solution was to just close the basement door and think about it later.  Until the cat brought in a bird and proceeded to chase it around in said basement before dining on parts and leaving a carcass and lots of feathers.   The basement moved up the list of weekend chores.

The prospect of facing the clutter and the tossed aside furniture was too much. But life has a way of forcing us to confront our stuff- the exterior clutter and the interior confusion, as well.  So the last weekend I visited. my sister and I had a lovely bike ride planned but the furnace blew a thingy and poured smoke into the house and obviously needing tending.  Her husband, lovely man that he is, doesn’t do household crisis/repairs well on his own.  He’s a great cook and does his own laundry so that's a good tradeoff. Plus Janet knew an old acquaintance with a HVAC handy husband. “Sure, we’ll come by and look at it after the boy’s football game. Be great to see you. Etc.”

Hurrah!  Problem’s not solved but we’re no longer in the literal smokey haze of broken furnace with winter coming on.  But of course, the furnace.... is in the basement.

Long story short (too late, you say....)- we hauled a pile out of the basement. Several piles. All the office catalogs from a previous job, some rain soaked fiberboard, lots of paper work, knick-knacks earmarked to go to Goodwill that had snuck into the basement when her back was turned. And it’s always easier to really sort and pitch with a kind friend.  Or a bossy, older sister.  “Seriously, why do you have a catalog from 2009?”

So we arranged furniture, planned for a painting project and generally patted ourselves on the back. The next morning, after church and a nice big breakfast, I was reading the Sunday paper and came across Howard Mansfield’s article, “An American Dilemma: Your Clutter or Your Life.”

“It’s now 'physically possible that every American could stand — all at the same time — under the total canopy of self-storage roofing,” boasts the Self Storage Association. There are about 51,000 storage facilities in the country — more than four times the number of McDonald’s.   The storage shed is a symptom of our cluttered lives.  Clutter is the cholesterol of the home, it's clogging the hearth."

                                                                                               From The Denver Post / Oct 4, 2013

He goes on to make great observations on the toll that clutter takes on our lives, our peace of mind, our family time, our living time.  “Clutter is choking our shelters. Is there any room left for us in our houses?”

We agreed. We want to live simple. We want to have less, haul stuff away, give it away.  Janet said for every thing she brought into the house, a similar item had to leave. And we had really made a dent in the basement and had several boxes to  donate. We looked at each other and with one breathe we both exclaimed, “We should do a Goodwill run!”  We are incorrigible.  But off we went to search for pillows for the new basement plan and any other absolute treasures we "need". 

But on the way, we found a large bill board advertising a new business venture for her town, which is just south of metro Denver. 

“Occupying roughly 20 acres, Vehicle Vault will include twelve storage “condos” for collectors of high-end automobiles. They will have the ability to maintain and display their prized collections in a country club-like atmosphere, and have access to concierge services, waterless car washes and transportation for vehicles that can’t be driven.”

Yes, you read that right. Not only can all of America stand under the roof area of the millions of storage units where we store stuff we can’t fit into our houses, now you can buy a condo to store your car.  Now granted, these are high-end collectible cars. Not like Beanie Babies that failed to return on their promised investment value but real assets. Like you have in a bank. Or in a vault.  For cars

“Village at Vehicle Vault. Built to provide the elite car collector a place to keep and maintain their investments and share their passion with a like-minded community of car enthusiasts.”    http://www.vehiclevaultco.com/

We decided it was a high-class storage unit, the kind you could proudly open the doors and share with fellow hoarders, I mean enthusiasts.   We laughed, took pictures and proceeded to not just one but two Goodwills where we scored fabric for pillows and a pair of absolutely necessary black capris.  And a cute pair of  brand new shoes. Don't judge. 

So... not sure the moral, the lesson, even the point of all this.  It just felt very ironic to be motivated to go shopping after we emptied a space that had been full of clutter.  And driving by the construction site for yet another storage facility/ museum struck me as the height of irony in a culture that even has a word for simplicity. 

Either way the bird feathers are gone, the basement's cleaned, the furnace is being pondered and we had an epiphany.  I just forgot what it was. Maybe my mind’s a bit cluttered. 

Grant Wood's America

As a little girl in Alaska I wasn't exactly exposed to fine art. I don't even remember an art museum. My dad was faithful to take us to the latest Warren Miller ski movie each year.  http://www.skinet.com/warrenmiller/
His true art appreciation phase was later in his life, after he retired from milking cows twice a day.

But one image I vividly remember is a Grant Wood print at our friend's house. The wife was a consummate homemaker.  All the Alaskan women seemed to excel at something and Betty was the one who grew humongous begonias, made all her own clothes from complicated, elegant Vogue patterns and decorated her house with midcentury modern furniture.  Well, it wasn't all that many years past the midcentury but it was sleek and chic compared to our dairy farm utilitarian decor.  My mother, God bless her, only had a school teacher's brief summer to fuss with her home decor.

When our families gathered for dinners or holidays at Betty's home,  I would stand and gaze at her small German windup music box. The box was just the base for a tiny scene- children and tiny clothes on lines and bunches of flowers. Sweet and romantic and delicate. These images and faint tinkle of mechanical music still tickle my memory and  again I am a small child, gazing the eye level at the tiny scene.  And above the long, low cabinet where the music boxes lived, was a Grant Wood print. Rolling hills of greens and yellows.  Rows of perfectly planted corn.  Peace, order, harmony.

"Young Corn"
http://bjws.blogspot.com/2012/10/1930s-americas-great-depression_12.html

http://www.grantwoodartgallery.org/grantwood.htm


Grant Wood's America is not real life, nor was it then.  He is more known for his iconic "American Gothic"

"American Gothic"

but his image of idyllic rural life touched something deep in me.  Perhaps the rough, not quite finished atmosphere of Alaska gave me a longing for the apparent permanence of a Midwest townscape.  My front yard faced the same looming mountains that Betty's did.  But her house reflected orderly, Midwestern roots and that contrast must have spoken something to my young soul.


So this week as I drove across the rolling hills of the Midwest, I was back in a Grant Wood painting. The light was terrible and the trees were only hinting of their fall colors but the same impression was there.  Fresh cut edges of stubble outlined the even lines of golden corn. Crops smoothly moved over the rounded hills.  Apple orchards had produce stands and I munched on a carmel apple of a variety I've never heard of.  Amish buggies occasionally shared the road with cars and trucks.  Farmsteads were tidy and a variety of barns begged to be photographed.

In my South Dakota life I see barns that tell the tales of failed attempts to conquer the land. Empty house slant into the wind, black windows are sightless eyes staring without life.  Spent and conquered, the farm will eventually crumble into the wildness of prairie.

But here in Iowa, Minnesota and Wisconsin, man has won over the land. Or at least here are scenes of cooperation and productivity, established patterns of crops, orchards and gardens.  Like a Grant Wood painting.

All that musing as I drove came from a print from my childhood. It was a small journey back into a formative memory.  And I wondered- what children who come to my house see? Are there images in my home that will spark a lifelong  longing for beauty or order or the Creator?  I love to create a visual feast for just my eyes to enjoy but this trip across an image of my childhood reminded me- you never know what visual memory you are creating for others. Especially the children of your world. It's not the same as a tour of a fine art museum.... or perhaps it is.

Beauty will save the world.  What's my part in creating that beauty? Not just for my own soul, but for the other people, large and small. who share my world.