Reflections on a life

I drove home last night in a pensive mood, taking time to photograph the water that caught my eye.


Reflections in a small eddy of a stream, 


the stream itself as it sparkled in the setting sun. 


The ripples of water on the lake and the sun streaming through the pines. 



This morning I woke to rain pattering, then pouring on my steel roof. Lighting cracked the mist and there was my brother's dog, leaning against my patio glass door. Jade hates thunder.  She wanders down the hill occasionally to check on me but she never comes into the house. Today she came in and after circling restlessly, finally flopped at my feet.  Glad for unexpected company on a rainy day, I read poetry to both of us and waited for the rain to stop and the electricity to return.

After the brief storm, I had electricity. Jade returned up the hill to her doghouse. I made my tea and toast and checked my emails.

"It's over. Leslie passed...."


I didn't know Leslie well but she is, I guess she was, a friend of a friend.  She fought a valiant fight against all odds and after the cancer was driven from her body, she succumbed to a lurking parasite deep in her brain. In the end, her weakened immune system could not defend her against the toxoplasmosis she was exposed years ago.  She leaves behind a loving husband and son, and a host of friends and friends of friends who have prayed with her, for her in this final season.

ripples in the lake formed by a passing boat.

 Leslie's friends connected to support her
 and continue to ripple into each other's lives.

  Leslie's suffering affected us all.

Can there be beauty in that? 

I was able to go to Virginia and stay near National Institute of Health when Leslie needed a companion after her bone marrow transplant. That's how we met- in her hospital room.  She was funny but very firm about what food she could eat. She was grateful for my company but spent hours on an internet live feed watching eaglets hatch in Indiana.  She was a real person and still a saint.  I was blessed to know her and I wear the hat and scarf she knit for me with gratitude.
Our time together closed my own grief circle and released me from my fear and dread of hospitals. My husband spent his last months at Bethesda Naval Medical Center, directly across the street from Leslie's room.  Our time together was healing- for both of us.



But her body, like Bill's, did not endure the brokenness of earth.  And none of ours will survive it either.  We come from dust,  we return to dust.  No one gets out of here alive.





Except we do.  Just like the mist obscures my vision today and the hills are hidden behind a veil of white, our vision of what is after this life is obscured.  The veil between what we know and what is coming is a fog.  But I know the hills are there- in the light they stand strong.  And we know by faith that behind the veil of death, life awaits.   So, rejoice in Life, Leslie!  Gaze on Jesus.  Say hello to Bill and my dad.  I trust you've already hugged yours.  

 We'll all be there soon enough.

What will the ripples of our life look like? 

Setting the pace

I went riding yesterday. Four hours including much walking- which is good and easy. Then there's trotting- lean back, relax, sink into the saddle. Or  else you'll bounce, bounce, bounce.



After conquering the level logging roads, we, well, the horses scrambled up steep hills and picked their way down the other side. I called it timber bashing, our leader said bush whacking or something. Either way, this was no sedate trail ride.

 One time we had to dismount and let the horses pick their way down the pine needle covered rock slope, "Just make sure you are uphill of the horse in case they go down." Good advice, scary advice.  We made little jokes comparing ourselves to the man from Snowy River.

We didn't go down anything quite this steep but it felt like it.
And aren't these great rocks!

But we made it. I was riding a lovely old quarter horse, a gentleman name Wahoo.  He was barrel trained and every time I shifted my sore buns, he moved right or left. He quickly figured out I had no idea what I was doing with my thighs besides trying to stay on and he cut me some slack.  So I gave him some slack and he all the grass as he wanted whenever we stopped.


At one point Wahoo's owner, who appears to be a horse whisperer/ equine wizard, asked if I wanted to canter. Well, I've ridden some but it's often months or years in between rides. I know the canter of a horse is much easier than the bouncy trot. But it feels so out of control. Well, yeah- I have a thousand pound animal beneath my frail body and they could be totally in control, if you let them.

 I hemmed and hawed.  She turned in her saddle and looked at me, "It's up to you. If you're ready to canter, we'll canter. If not, we won't."

It wasn't if YOU don't want to, YOU don't have to.

 It was, "If you aren't ready to canter, WE won't canter."

She continued, "The rule is - the group only rides as hard as the most vulnerable person can handle. And one of us will canter with you. The goal is to keep you safe."


It was humbling. And yes, I did canter. And jumped a log while cantering up a hill; I should say I stayed on while my horse cantered and jumped. It was fun.  Dismounting and  escorting a big horse down a very steep slope covered with pine needles was not fun, but it was empowering. We accomplished something!  We were a strong team.

It was a glorious day- like this. 

As I soaked in epson salts last night and examined my bruises, I thought about riding as a team,  in the context of the life of faith.

What if our heart goal was this?

"We only go at the pace of the most vulnerable among us?  

When we're together, we're a team." 

Of my fellow riders yesterday, the other three women ride all the time.  They could have cantered or even galloped much of the trail.  Two of them study horse anatomy and one is a world-known horse hoof trimmer. Not a farrier- she trims hooves so they don't need shoes and their leg problems are solved. It's an art and she teaches others. She was flown to Spain to teach this technique.

 She's a great teacher, "Lean back, settle into the seat. Looks good. Give him a little rein. Don't touch the saddle horn."  Not bossy, not all the time but when she saw me floundering, she was there with a wise word.

As Christians, we don't necessarily watch out for the weakest among us. 

We're in our Bible studies and we'd welcome a newbie,  but do we take the time to notice their trepidation?  Do we learn how to gently instruct with wisdom and grace?   

We know, after some experience,  how to scramble up and down the rough patches in life,

 but do we take the time to slow down and go at the pace of the weakest, the most vulnerable? 

On the trail, I felt safe. I felt welcomed, no one seemed to mind, no one rolled their eyes or sighed when I lagged behind, then bounced in my saddle as Wahoo trotted and we caught up. I did miss some of their conversations  but I was just so glad to be included, to be learning more about riding, to be out in God's creation and on the back of a big, gentle horse.  I didn't have the confidence to take a camera so I'll use some pictures from last year. Once again it was beautiful- green and lush with wildflowers and flowering bushes.  And wonderful rocks.



And after our time together on horseback, we put away the tack and let the horses loose in the pasture. Then we drove into town and celebrated our victories, figured out our journey with a map and shared a meal. We told our stories and got to know each other.

 Sounds like what Jesus might have done, 

"Look at where we've walked today,  

remember the fish you caught, the people we met, 

 be aware of God's miracles. 

 Let's share the meal."

Riding the trail or walking the faith- it's all about being part of a team. A team that considers the more vulnerable and chooses to slow down the pace.  

The goal is to get everyone home.