DRGT / Just Wondering...

A Quiet Moment

2012-02-18T22:14:00.000-08:00

"For each perfect gift of Thine,

To our race so freely given,

Graces human and divine,

Flowers of earth and buds of Heaven.

Lord of all to Thee we raise,

this our hymn of grateful praise."

Last verse and refrain from the hymn, "For the Beauty of the Earth,"

written in 1864 by a man with quite the name: Folliott S. Pierpoint.

He was all of 29 years old when he wrote these words and was said to be

mesmerized by the beauty of the countryside that surrounded him.

That pretty much describes my response to the sight of these pink

blooms suddenly appearing, hanging over an alleyway while I

took a walk around my daughter's neighborhood in the Los Angeles suburb of Monrovia, CA last week.

John Rutter's glorious setting of these words (well, almost - he uses the alternate wording of 'joyful praise' for the last line of the refrain) is one of my very favorite choral pieces ever. Enjoy this rendition, sung by the choir of a girls' school from Singapore. Happy holiday weekend, everyone.

Joining with Sandy King and Deidra Riggs and their restful invitations to quiet this weekend.

Five Minute Friday: DELIGHT: A Photo Essay

2012-02-17T16:44:00.000-08:00

I'm about out of words for this week.

I've written my heart out for the last two weeks or so,

trying to be more 'vulnerable' in my reflections.

Net result?

Fewer readers, many fewer comments.

A couple of those were 'entered,' if that is the right word, in an open invitation, a highlight-will-be-featured kind of event.

Never yet made a cut at any of those,

so I know there is something missing in this place.

I'm just not sure what that is.

So, I'm taking a bit of a break from words just now.

I'm heading out for this three-day weekend,

spending it at the mission,

a reunion with the folks from the school where I am in training for spiritual direction.

I will not be posting or checking facebook for a while.

So to transition myself from too many words to none,

I'll reflect on Lisa-Jo's invitation this week with photos from the last two weeks, photos that reflect that intake of breath when I see something wondrous,

delightful.

I am grateful beyond words for these God-given moments of bliss, particularly during this difficult season of slow loss,

the fading away of our moms.

These photos range from a surprising surround-sound sunset as I walked circles in my front drive,

to a glorious pink-flowered tree as I walked in my daughter's neighborhood on Monday,

to beachside stops for lunch and prayer,

to a few shots of our local-est grandkids.

All.of.it.delightful.

Thank you, Lord, for these good gifts.

Thanks, Lisa-Jo, for this great prompt. Delight is a gift of grace and it's always fun to reflect on how we meet grace in the everyday.

Check out some of the other entries over at TheGypsyMama:

An Early Valentine's Day (Even Though This Post Is Late)

2012-02-15T16:31:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day was a bit of a bust around here.

We were on the road,

tired, cranky, heading home.

Emotional time with my mom for me,

head-warping time with the tax accountant for him.

So we had a tough ride home.

Sometimes the steam collects,

and instead of venting it in small quantities,

over time, it comes out like a TNT explosion,

sending shrapnel bouncing around the place.

As painful as that feels when it happens,

the grace in it is this:

we can get back to center in short order.

In earlier years, that part of the process could take days,

sometimes weeks. This time, we were both able to say, "I'm sorry. That was insensitive of me. I know this weekend has been hard for you."

So I spent a little time today, while Lilly was napping (finally!), looking at photos from a truly lovely day earlier this month.

It was a good reminder that in and around the tough stuff,

we manage to make memories that are life-giving and hope-filled.

I started that day with Silent Saturday,

always a healthy, hopeful thing for me to do.

Three hours of centering prayer and reflection,

sitting, walking, thinking, praying.

We were in a different place this month,

crowded out by a large retreat gathering.

Still oak trees of glory,

still room by the creek.

It was a good time, though I was more distracted than usual.

Distraction is the name of the game some days.

Later that day, I picked up my husband and we drove to the tiny town just south of us, parking on the bluffs

overlooking Summerland Beach.

The same place where I sat by myself

and looked long at the sea last month.

The view from up there was just as spectacular.

It was later in the day this time, and quite a bit warmer, so we opted to take a long walk on the beach.

The walkway down to the sand was lined with bright yellow wildflowers, the angle of the light exactly right.

If you've followed my blog at all,

you've seen lots of pictures of the bluffs along this stretch of coastline. Rosy gold to rich coral in color, beautifully eroded with striations, even large cave-like openings,

they epitomize central coast natural architecture.

Single shorebirds showed up at various points along our venture - this curlew, a lone pelican on the water, a cormorant sticking to the rocks even when pummeled by the waves.

The rock formations - above us to the north and sprinkled throughout the water to the south (yes, our beaches face south on this peninsula) -

are wonder-filled and beautiful.

As we walked back, the horseman we had seen from the bluffs came galloping by us, heading home;

a teenaged boy carried driftwood back to his friends,

busy constructing something wondrous.

The sun was not yet down, so we climbed into the car and drove a little further south, heading to a favorite restaurant, recently under new ownership, a place where you can eat outdoors, picnic tables and thatched umbrellas spread across a lovely lawn while the kids play in a nearby designer sandbox.

And we relished those burgers, oh yes, we did,

as the sun slowly sank into the sea.

And that very night, my husband built the fire that inspired

this reflection on our long-term love.

Who says Valentine's Day needs to be on the 14th anyhow?

I will join this one with L.L., Laura, Jennifer and Ann. It was a lovely day, a beautiful place and a great memory, too.

Waiting: How Long? How Hard?

2012-02-13T23:03:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite pictures from the last 'fun' trip we took with my mom - wildflower hunting in the spring of 2010. This is a little known reserve called

the Carrizo Plain, located in central CA, midway between Santa Maria & Bakersfield.

First, gut-level response?

Step into a hot, hot shower.

Let the water sting and pummel,

wash and re-wash every piece of me,

pounding and prickling, and rinsing it all away.

The sadness,

the creeping sadness, pervasive and thick;

that strange coating I feel as I walk from my car into the house.

A thick layer of

sorrow,

age,

fragility,

forgetfulness,

anxiety,

confusion,

teariness,

pain.

The exhale that sticks to me with every breath my mother breathes these days.

The one that makes me cry,

"How long, O Lord?

How long?"

The one I know I must get used to;

that I need to learn to feel and endure the weight of,

perhaps even to welcome.

Because this is what is these days.

This is what is.

I do not like what is, that much is clear.

I resist it,

I resent it,

I rant to heaven about it,

I want it to go away.

I admit to ugly feelings of envy when I hear

of mothers who go home to Jesus forthwith,

with little disintegration,

little pain,

no sense of hopelessness,

of being forever lost.

I don't like these feelings in my spirit.

But I must face into them,

I must acknowledge this shadow side,

this hard wrestle with what is.

And I think,

in fact I know,

that God honors my honesty,

even as God asks for my acquiescence,

my gradual acceptance of this 'is-ness,'

this hard, steadily familiar reality.

She vacillates between delight at the sight of me

and despair that she cannot remember I was coming.

One minute, smiling and expectant,

the next, weeping and lost.

Appetite declining,

back aching from a fall,

hiding out in her new apartment far too many evening meals.

With me beside her, she ventures out,

proud to introduce me to her friends.

Her natural extroversion carries her,

the steadiest, surest her.

It brings her momentarily back to the surface

and she engages friends well,

using social skills honed over years of practice.

Back in her room,

her shoulders visibly slump,

a loud sigh escapes,

releasing pent up sorrow and fear.

And I wonder,

how long will she be in this never land,

this in-between space of who she was

and who she is becoming?

How long will we enjoy even a piece

of who she was

in the middle of who she is?

And I know the word is still 'waiting.'

that word that chose me this year.

And I still don't like it very much.

But I'm here, Lord.

Still leaning,

still looking for glimmers of that shine I'm seeking.

But a shower was what I needed tonight.

What I may still need for a long, long time.

I am finding that I need to write about all this inner tumbling, this distress and nascent anger. I am prayerfully hoping that what I am feeling is akin to the 'indignation' (sometimes translated 'compassion') that Jesus is described as exhibiting several times in the gospel record. Each of those times featured a confrontation with illness/darkness/death and the word seems to indicate the depth of Jesus' sadness at the results of the sin and brokenness in this world of ours. And the ravages caused by these self-eating brain disorders are surely among the hardest of those results. Kyrie eleison.

I don't think what I've written here is exactly right for joining with most of my Monday bunch. The last two days have surely not been a playdate, nor are they particularly centered on place. Nor are they filled with the wonder of 'God-Bumps,' nor are they reflections on Sunday worship. And they wouldn't fit very well with Ann's gratitude list, either. So I will link with Jen at the sisterhood and Heather at "Just Write" and leave it at that for now.

Back again on Friday morning, deciding to add this into Bonnie Gray's invitation to be "Vulnerable" this week. This one is about as vulnerable as I've gotten in a while, so maybe it will fit there. I'm thinking this is a topic most people don't want to read about - it cuts too close, maybe? But believe me, it happens to all of as at some point...and we're never quite ready for it.

Weekends Are for Quieting: "Teach Me Your Paths"

2012-02-11T22:33:00.000-08:00

"LORD, make me know your ways.

LORD, teach me your paths.

Make me walk in your truth, and teach me,

for you are God my savior.

In you I hope all the day long

because of your goodness, O LORD.

Remember your mercy, LORD,

and the love you have shown from of old."

Psalm 25:4-7

The Grail Translation

(commissioned for liturgical use in the Benedictine tradition.)

Joining this weekend with three gatherings where quiet reflection is encouraged. Sandy King, "Still Saturday," Deidra Riggs, "Sunday," and Katie Lloyd, "Scripture & a Snapshot."

Synchronicity: The THC Book Club

2012-02-09T23:00:00.000-08:00

I have thoroughly enjoyed reading the Book Club selection this time around - David Brooks', "The Social Animal: The Hidden Sources of Love, Character, and Achievement."

Yeah, I like it a lot.

But writing about what I'm reading? Not so much. No, not so much. It's a tad overwhelming, that's what it is. It's a whole lot of factual information coming from the worlds of neuro-science, anthropology, sociology, psychology and a whole bunch of other 'ologies,' and there are times when it feels like I'm trying to drink from a fire hose. So, I missed last week's go-round. And I almost missed this week's, too. It's called procrastination and it's my middle name. So far, there hasn't been a study to explain why some of us do this so very well, but there really should be. Sometimes it feels like a real, textbook disease!

So to make up for this lapse in my notoriously short-circuiting attention span, I am going to attempt the impossible tonight: I'm going to write about SIX chapters instead of the usual weekly three. How's that for crazy??

Using his central characters Harold and Erica to help illustrate the information he has gathered, Brooks looks at the following topics over the course of these 100 pages: Intelligence (which includes other factors besides IQ), Choice Architecture (basically, a chapter on marketing psychology), Freedom & Commitment (a brief glimpse into how we grow our most intimate relationships), Limerance (where the kind of happiness that results from 'falling in love' leads to a repeating rhythm of 'difficulty to harmony' rather than any kind of a 'golden mean'), The Grand Narrative (how the basic human tendency toward overconfidence can lead to the spectacular failure of a system or a business), and Métis (a French word meaning a 'mental map,' which allows a person to 'know,' both rationally and intuitively, how to proceed in any given situation.)

As I read through these chapters, I found myself becoming increasingly excited to discover that so much of what Brooks' research has led him to conclude is in remarkable synch with a whole lot of other reading I've been doing in the last few years. Specifically, I am finding a lot of synchronicity with the work I am doing both to learn about and to practice the discipline and art of Spiritual Direction. So much of what I've learned - and am also beginning to experience - of spirituality in the 2nd half of life is centered around the interaction between our conscious and unconscious selves. Growing deeper spiritually necessarily involves letting go of a lot of ideas and behaviors learned in the first half of life. Richard Rohr, Gerald May, Margaret Guenther, Basil Pennington, Thomas Keating, my own spiritual director and his teaching team at the Charismatic School for Spiritual Direction where I am enrolled - all of them talk, write and teach about the search for wholeness, the integration of the self, the fine-tuning of our spiritual eyes and ears to catch glimpses of the work that is going on underneath the surface.

And woven all the way through these chapters - peaking with the last one - I found many of the same ideas. The terminology used is much more academic (Level 1 and Level 2 thinking, British vs. French Enlightenment, Epistemological Modesty), but the resonance is there. These two quotes could have come directly from some of my other reading, without missing a beat:

"Our hypothesis leads us to the radical suggestion that the critical difference between the thinking of humans and of lower animals lies not in the existence of consciousness but in the capacity for complex processes outside of it."

"Epistemology is the study of how we know what we know. Epistemological modesty is the knowledge of how little we know and can know. Epistemological modesty is an attitude toward life...built on the awareness that we don't know ourselves. Most of what we think and believe is unavailable to conscious review. We are our own deepest mystery...And yet this humble attitude doesn't necessarily produce passivity. Epistemological modesty is a disposition for action. The people with this disposition believe that wisdom begins with an awareness of our own ignorance...that there is no one method of solving problems...most of what [we] know accumulates through a long and arduous process of wandering...the wanderer endures uncertainty...possessing what John Keats called negative capability, the ability to be in 'uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.'" quotes taken from pages 245-248

Learning to balance these different kinds of knowing - the knowing that comes from fine-tuning our conscious mind's ability to use logic and rationality AND the knowing that lies submerged at the level of the unconscious, things we don't even know that we know - this is where I believe the work of the Holy Spirit is most powerfully revealed. And this is what each of these chapters, in its own unique way, underscores by means of research data engagingly presented.

Please understand that this is most definitely NOT a book about human spirituality. Brooks is writing for the popular, mainstream culture; he is not writing about the work of the Holy Spirit. But what I see as I read is heavily influenced by what I am learning elsewhere, by what I have experienced through my own integrative process. (Which is, by the way, far from complete.) As a person who has wandered many years now, who has learned to be more and more at peace with the many uncertainties of this life and to relish a good mystery on occasion, I found these chapters affirming, encouraging and captivating. I don't know where he's going with these characters of his (they seem to have gotten shoved to the background behind all the data in these pages), but I am looking forward to seeing how it all ends up, that's for sure. And for me, that is a sure sign of a 'good read.'

Please hop on over to The High Calling and check out our leader, Laura Boggess's take on the book thus far.

The High Calling is one of the finest websites out there for thinking Christians. Check out their other resources while you're over there.

In Which I List the Ways That Pastoring is a Lot Like Mothering

2012-02-06T10:52:00.000-08:00

I didn’t ask to be a mom. I didn’t have to work too hard to become a mom, either - at least in the biological sense of that word. Our first daughter arrived five days after my 23^rd birthday. I was 14,000 miles away from home and had no pre-natal care except the advice of experienced missionaries living nearby and the limited resources of a used gynecological textbook from some nursing curriculum somewhere. Yes, there was a doctor - and a good one - but he was stationed at a hospital 40 miles away, over a very corrugated dirt road; I saw him a total of three times before Lisa was born.

This is what I remember: all of a sudden, I was pregnant - and then, all of a sudden…I was a mother.

There she was, in all her amazing perfection and beauty. I had no parenting guides, no clue where to begin, so I just…began. By the time babies #2 and #3 came along, I was once again living in the land of high-tech hospitals, bookshelves lined with how-to manuals and more people willing to tell me what to do than I could count. But I continued as I had begun: I muddled through.

I made a lot of mistakes. I blew it with dreadfully predictable regularity. I yelled too much, relied on television too much, fed them food with too much sugar too often, dragged them around in cars without seat belts, much less car seats. And somehow, by the grace of a faithful God, they all lived to tell about it. Not only that, but they flourished - my myriad mistakes and all.

Sometimes they hated me - I know this because they told me so, one with alarming frequency. And sometimes, in and around adoring them with every fiber of my being, I hated them, too. That was only when I was exhausted, exasperated, confused or frightened, of course, but between those four emotional coordinates, I’d say that was more often than I’d like to admit. And I don’t REALLY mean I hated them - it was actually more like I hated what happened to me when I was trying my darnedest to be a ‘good mother’ to them and it all fell apart in my face.

When my youngest was a senior in high school, I went back to school - to seminary, actually. And by the time I began working in my profession, all my kids were married and I was a grandmother, on my way to eight grandkids. And guess what? I discovered that all that muddling through I did as a stay-at-home mom? Well, it came in mighty handy when trying to pastor a congregation of 350 highly individual individuals.

“How is that true, Diana?” you might ask. “What possible parallels can there be between parenting and pastoring? “ “Ah,” I would say right back to you, “Let me count the ways!”

1. Authenticity

Now here’s a paradoxical/oxymoronic statement for you to chew on as we begin this counting thing: Even when I haven’t known who I was, I have still managed to be the real me. From the time they were itty-bitty babies, I have talked to my kids like I talk to my friends like I talk to the people I meet almost anywhere. God has been in the process of forming me/shaping me/changing me - sometimes with a great deal of reluctance on my part - for a very long time now. Since I was about 11 years old, in fact, and went forward at a revival meeting in my home church in downtown Los Angeles. I’ve gotten detoured, lost, overwhelmed, discouraged and embarrassed multiple times along the way. But I’ve always been who I was at any moment in history - not any more than I was, but not any less, either. And I’ve always talked about the processing going on as honestly and openly as possible. For as long as I have known them, I have loved to be around my kids, loved to talk to them, to show them what’s going on in the world around them, to invite discovery, to laugh and to cry when things were appropriately wonderful or terrible. And while I did all that, I pretty much let it all hang out - the flaws, the overwhelm, the not knowing. Also, the thirst for knowledge, the eye for detail, the quick sense of humor, the willingness to work hard. What they saw was what they got.

2. Encouragement

I never had the looks or the coordination for the job, but I coulda been a GREAT cheerleader. I believe in encouragement as a force for world peace, reconciliation between warring tribes, the solution to global warming. I cannot think of a single negative thing that comes from encouraging someone else on their journey of life. Not one. I was a huge fan of each of my children - still am, as a matter of fact. They are, without a doubt, the most brilliant, kind, compassionate, creative, loving human persons who have ever graced the planet. Well, other than Jesus himself, of course. And their children are following right along in their parents’ footsteps. I believed in my kids, even when I didn’t know if that was the smartest row to hoe or not. They were not perfect - but then, neither am I, neither is their dad. But those kids came dang close, I’ll tell you. And when they had a down day, I was there to tell them it would look better in the morning. And generally, it did. It really did. Encouragement is the name of the game. And I think the apostle Paul - and yes, Jesus himself - would agree with me on that one.

3. Nurturing

At the risk of sounding like a particularly sappy Hallmark card, this is what’s at the heart of mothering, is it not? Protecting those chicks, even when they’re bigger than you are. Providing a safe haven, a cozy nest. Paying enough attention to know when they need a ‘mental health’ day off from school but not so much attention that they feel suffocated. Packing lunches (or double-checking the cash reserves for the cafeteria); baking birthday cakes (or buying exactly the right kind at the corner bakery); knowing what they like and what they don’t like - for dinner, in their closet, coming out of your mouth; knowing who their friends are, praying for friends if they don’t have any (or if you think they need a little broader selection). Paying attention and being there - pretty much sums it up.

4. Listening

I’ve already mentioned that I spent a lot of time talking to my children when they were young. But I spent a lot, a lot, a LOT of time listening to them as they got bigger. Some of my kids were better talkers than others. The one who is male clammed up at about age 12 and I had to carefully figure out ways to continue the conversation. This is what I discovered: if we were in the car, where we did not have to make eye contact, my son would open up like he used to before the hormones began flooding his lanky frame. (In two years, he grew ten inches and gained about fifty pounds of big bones and solid muscle). Sometimes I didn’t like what I heard, but I kept on listening, trying not to react, cringe, frown or otherwise shut down the flow. Making space for the other person to talk, even if that talk is painful confession or emotional outburst, is really a requirement for any kind of meaningful human relationship, don’t you think?

5. Teaching

This might seem to be the facet of mothering with the most direct carry-over into the pastoral life, and in some ways that is definitely true. But maybe not in exactly the ways you might imagine. From the time my kids were about 18 months old, I invited them to make choices about their lives, starting with the small stuff. What would you like to wear today? I’d ask. And that made for some fascinating fashion statements at times. As they got bigger, I’d gently comment that maybe we could choose pants OR the skirt, or perhaps both of those busy prints might look more restful if they weren’t worn together. But initially, they wore what they wanted, even if people thought I’d pulled their outfits out of a dumpster somewhere. And I applied that principle across the board. The encyclopedia, the dictionary, the daily newspaper, the Bible - all of these became rich resources in my efforts to help them become their own persons, with their own ideas. If I knew something about a topic they were interested in, I talked about it or I showed them how to do it for themselves. They all got reasonably good at doing laundry, cooking a basic meal (although I was never a good cook and they are all far better at it than I ever was), doing basic household chores. They also learned how to read and to write critically and well, how to wrestle through hard ideas and issues and how to take care of one another. You know, the basics - the essential skills needed to live life in a sometimes crazy world.

6. Releasing

This was the hardest part of mothering for me, bar none: letting them go. And I had to begin doing that when my eldest was a lot younger than I wished. She got married when she was 19 and she basically shifted her primary focus to the man she married when she was just a slip of a girl at 16. The Lord and I wrestled hard about all of this for each of those three years and I continued to wrestle with it for a lot of years after she was married and gone. I had never asked to become a mother, but once I was one? It became my primary identity and mission in life. I loved every thing about it, even the hard and ugly stuff. But what I learned during those years of wrestling was this so-important truth: my children were not mine. They were entrusted to my care, they were among the greatest of God’s gifts to me, but they did not belong to me. They were their own unique selves, gifted and shaped not to become mini-me’s but to become Lisa, Joy and Eric. And for that to happen, I had to do a whole lot of work up front and then get my mucky hands off. I had to stand back and watch them move out into the world all on their own. They made mistakes, they fell down - hard, sometimes - but oh my, what magnificent people they are! Each one of them an individual of irreplaceable giftedness, heart and finely crafted personality.

I’m not sure if what I’ve written here exactly fits into the category of ‘practices of parenting.” Nevertheless, I am contributing them to Sarah Styles Bessey’s Blog Carnival of ideas and suggestions. She’s issued a wonderfully warm invitation and many of us are joining the party. Come on over to her place and check them all out. I will also add this one to the new meme forming to help cover the absence of Emily Wierenga for a while. I've done her "Imperfect Prose" for almost a year now and so enjoy the company of that place. But Emily's life is over full just now, so Kim at "Journey to Epiphany" has stepped in with a temporary community gathering space called, "Painting Prose." Thanks, Kim!

I Do: Long-Term Love

2012-02-06T08:28:00.000-08:00

He comes in regularly and stirs the fire.

And every single time,

I am struck with gratitude and wonder

that we chose each other so many years ago.

It's such a simple thing, stirring those logs around,

just a few moments of time.

But I know this - it is an act of love, this fire-tending,

an act I deeply appreciate.

An act that is emblematic,

representing the story of who we are somehow.

Not all of who we are,

but kind of a meta-picture,

a summary statement.

Because the truth of our story is this:

we grew up together.

We were so young, you see.

When we met, I was seventeen, he was barely twenty.

When we married, I was the 20-year-old,

mid-way through my senior year at UCLA.

That summer, we moved to Zambia for two years,

traveling by freighter over a choppy Atlantic Ocean

for eighteen long days.

The sunsets were glorious;

the storms terrifying.

Not a bad description of the next 25 years or so, actually.

We had so much to learn - beginning with ourselves.

Raised in 'traditional' 1950's Christian homes,

we had a whole lot of firmly held opinions

about what marriage and family should look like

and we did our darnedest to live up those.

I put together our wedding liturgy (I loved liturgy, even then),

and I searched for the old wording to be sure and include the word 'obey' in my vows. Those who know me at this end of the last 46 years

might be surprised by that small piece of trivia.

But they would probably not be terribly surprised to learn that it was my husband who first chafed at the thinking behind it,

that it was he who began to call out my gifts as a teacher and leader.

I was too frightened at the prospect of 'messing up' my marriage

to go there for a very long time.

Together, we've changed up the dance,

trading places - both literally and figuratively - as time and circumstance demanded.

We've hit a few rough patches along the way, that's for sure.

We went to a counselor for a while at about year 25,

when I was in the midst of seminary and carrying a couple of part time jobs and we both felt confused and angry and badly disconnected.

The best thing that came of that experience? The last twenty years.

Somewhere during that time of counseling,

we looked at each other and said,

"We've got a good thing going here; let's make it better."

And, by God's grace, we have.

We are very different people - different politics, different temperaments, different favorite-times-of-the-day, different tastes in television

(except for Downton Abbey!).

And guess what?

We are never bored.

Yes, we can get snarly sometimes.

We can get our feelings hurt and our feathers ruffled.

But we make each other laugh louder than anyone else we know.

We have spent so much time together that we seldom have to guess

what the other is thinking.

We each think the other is the finest person on the planet.

We adore our children and our grandchildren.

We are committed to faith and family above all else.

And most of the time,

we really, really like each other.

We're even learning to do this thing called retirement,

which for a couple with very busy schedules

for very many years, was a somewhat daunting prospect.

While I was pastoring, my husband was commuting

for three-day stretches away from me every week while he continued to work in southern CA.

During those mid-week days, I grew to understand the deep dividends of solitude.

For the first time in my life, I was spending time alone -
and I was loving it.

How would we manage being together 24/7?

Well, one way is this:

in the evenings, he watches sports in the family room;

I write in the bedroom.

And during the winter months,

he builds me a lovely fire in our bedroom fireplace.

About every 90 minutes or so, I hear him coming down the hall,

to peek in and make sure

that fire is performing as a properly built fire should perform.

And that small act tells me what I most deeply need to know:

my husband values who I am and what I do.

In this quieter season of our life together,

it's an echo of sorts,

an echo of what he said to me when it began to look like we'd be moving to Santa Barbara so that I could take a job.

"Honey, for the last 30 years, you've built your life around my career choices. You've supported me through all the twists and turns my professional life has taken. Now, it's my turn to adjust, to let you flourish and grow and become more of who God designed you to be, just like you've always done for me."

He values who I am.

He values what I do.

I value who he is.

I value what he does.

Even now, we want

to keep learning, keep growing,

keep leaning into Jesus and one another.

We want the fire to burn bright,

so we'll keep tending,

keep stirring,

keep enjoying the light, the warmth, the beauty.

Even when he's in one room,

and I'm in another.

This essay was written at the invitation of Jennifer Dukes Lee and The High Calling. I am joining the community writing project at THC by signing on with Jennifer's weekly meme. Ann Voskamp is also encouraging essays about love this month, so I'll put it there as well. And with all the sisters at Jen Ferguson's place, the soli deo sisterhood. And, at the end of the week, with Bonnie's discussion on Love Unwrapped.

Still Saturday/Sunday - "The Heavens Proclaim.."

2012-02-04T22:50:00.000-08:00

"The heavens proclaim the glory of God,

and the firmament shows forth the work

of God's hands.

Day unto day takes up the story

and night unto night makes known the message."

Psalm 19:2-3

The Grail Translation

Joining with Deidra at "JumpingTandem" and Sandy at "SandraHeskaKing" for their weekly invitation to quiet worship, Sandy at "Still Saturday," and Deidra at, "Sunday."
And re-joining with Katie at "KatieLloydPhotography" for her weekly "Scripture and a Snapshot:"

Five Minute Friday: Real

2012-02-03T00:29:00.000-08:00

Can you believe it's Friday again? Already? Me, neither. But that's what the calendar is telling me....almost. Still 30 minutes to go here on the west side of the land, but I'm ready to try this five minute things anyhow!

Joining with Lisa-Jo once again over at The Gypsy Mama for her weekly invitation to 'just write.'

"I don't think that it is always necessary to talk about the deepest and most private dimension of who we are, but I think we are called to talk to each other out of it, and just as importantly to listen to each other out of it, to live out of our depths as well as our shallows. We are all of us adolescents, painfully growing and groping our way toward something like true adulthood, and maybe the greatest value we have both to teach and to learn as we go is the capacity to be amazed...which is a power to heal us and bless us and in the end maybe even to transform us into truly human beings at last."

Source: The Clown in the Belfry, by Frederick Buechner

This week's prompt: REAL

GO:

This quote really jumped up and bit me tonight as I was scurrying through the long list of unread emails in my inbox. This was the devotional thought from The Church of the Savior in Washington D.C. for today and it invites serious thinking about some of the very things I've been pondering these last few days.

I wrote about amazement on Monday.

I wrote about 'real' community yesterday.

So to find this quote - and to see Lisa-Jo's prompt - made me wonder: What am I supposed to be seeing/learning from all this synchronicity?

Here are a few (very few) initial responses to that inner query:

That authenticity and vulnerability are beautiful things, that they need to be honored and held lightly, that they need to be protected and valued.

That we don't need to spill every intimate detail of our lives into each and every conversation we ever have, but we do need to be sensitive to the movement of the Spirit within for those times when appropriate and helpful sharing could facilitate healing and health in ourselves or others.

That there is always, always something going on around or within us that could, if we stopped long enough to notice it, cause us to drop that jaw in amazement, gratitude and joy.

That giving the gift of 'real' is a matter of both discretion and trust - ultimately, trust in God's grace to bring healing, and trust in the other person to hold confidence and to offer listening that goes deep.

STOP

This just may be the strangest response to a Lisa-Jo prompt I've ever written! (About one extra minute - and links were added after the time limit.)

Real Life Community

2012-02-01T23:38:00.000-08:00

Joining with Bonnie over at The Faith Barista today and with Emily for her last Imperfect Prose for a while as she and her family move into a challenging new phase of life with two new boys to love.

Life is strange sometimes.

Take this, for example:

I was the pastoral staff person responsible for the

care and maintenance of small groups

in our congregation for 14 years.

Yet, my husband and I found it very hard

to be in a small group ourselves.

We tried twice in the early years.

One a Bible study,

the other a sermon study.

(You see, I developed and suggested all kinds of different formats for groups to try - ours is a congregation of eclectics, different-strokes-for-different-folks kind of mentality - and I always kept a couple of shelves available with study guides/suggestions for anyone wishing to form or join a group.)

But every time we joined one,

it began to fall apart fairly early on.

It was a mystery to me, that whole small groups thing.

Some groups worked so very well that the people in them stayed together for years, sometimes decades.

Problem there was -

they weren't open to anyone new.

Other groups would start off with a bang,

then disappear with a whimper,

despite training for leaders and

regular check-ins to see how things were going.

So it was with a feeling of dread mixed with anxiety that I began my last round of small group organization during that final year of employment at the church.

With a gifted and committed lay leader,

I had planned a marriage retreat in the spring.

Twenty-six couples came away for a weekend of worship, learning, practice, prayer.

It was very, very good.

And from that group, I attempted to form several follow-up groups, choosing to let the groups themselves decide what kind of schedule and format they would follow.

And, very hesitantly,

I offered our own home and hospitality,

without much hope, frankly,

that anything would work.

But God.

Just that.

But God had other ideas.

About four successful groups came together and

stayed together from that project.

And one of those

was the one that meets once a month at our home.

We meet on Sundays, after church, at 1:30 in the afternoon.

We meet for two hours - some couples have kids and two hours is long enough to entrust them to a sitter.

We gather in the yard - in sunny weather -

or in our dining room, when it's cooler.

Someone brings dessert, we provide beverages.

We keep it very, very simple.

We catch up with each other for the first 30 minutes or so. Sometimes that catching up spurs some deep sharing, sometimes it's just a check-in time.

And some weeks, one couple is given

the opportunity to use the Group Bucket -

a small colorful container containing

slips of paper with thought-provoking questions on them. Questions designed to elicit some deeper story-telling.

The couple of the week has the option to refuse the question they draw or to edit the question in any way they like.

And then, we go round the circle.

It.is.amazing.

We have shared about all kinds of things,

most of them have brought us to our knees,

in prayers of thanksgiving or supplication.

And that's the other thing we do each time we gather:

we pray for one another.

This is not a study.

This is a time to share,

sometimes to confess,

often to laugh, to cry, to be honest about where we're struggling,

to ask for prayer for ourselves or our kids or our parents,

depending on where we are in the life cycle.

And that's the other thing that has been really rich about this group.

We are very intentionally inter-generational.

When we began, we had one couple newly married,

two couples of 40+ years,

one of 20 and another of 12.

Some have moved away and we've been open to newcomers.

And each time, the Lord has brought exactly the right people, the right 'demographic,' even!

As I look back over our time in this place,

I can see and understand God's timing

a bit better.

During those earliest years,

it was tough to do community authentically

with people we were just getting to know.

We had come from 20+ year in the same congregation,

where our ties ran deep, deep.

And it was tough to find the lines between my job

and my desire to know and be known

at a deep level.

And the demands of both job and family during most of my employed life

left little space or energy

to build the kind of couple connections we

were used to having.

We each found avenues for service and for worship,

but community?

Not so much.

Somehow, at the end of my pastoral life,

the door opened for this kind of connection.

We were ready for it,

God provided it,

and we are grateful.

But I gotta say - it was a long time coming.

And it's a very fragile thing, this community building.

It needs tending and commitment

and it needs the baptizing presence of the Spirit of God.

Because all of us are a mess, you know?

We're flawed,

we're over-scheduled,

we're over-committed,

we're afraid to let the scars show

for fear we'll be judged or rejected

or, God forbid, 'fixed' in some way.

It is a great gift to feel safe with a small group of fellow strugglers on the way,

one that I do not take for granted after several years without it.

I thank God that we have found such a place of safety.

How about you?

Are you connected to people who love you, warts and all?

People who will pray for you and with you when things get dicey?

People who will let Jesus shine through them,

right into your heart?

Healing Prayer - Holy Ground

2012-01-30T23:28:00.000-08:00

Our text on Sunday was Mark 1:21-34. Check it out.

I love the gospel of Mark.

Quick to the point of brusqueness,

Mark moves things right along,

no meandering,

no wondering.

A lot of "immediately"s and a lot of "amazed"s

are peppered throughout his narrative.

Usually, I enjoy a story that unfolds slowly,

like a beautiful flower,

gradually revealing its hidden beauty and fragrance.

Mark will have none of that.

And on Sunday, I remembered how much I like that,

how thankful I am for Mark's rapid-fire depiction of the jaw-dropping things
Jesus began to do after his immersion in the Jordan River.

Living in the 21st century as we do,
I am struck by how underwhelmed we are a lot of the time.

Maybe that's because we're bombarded with HEADLINES all the time,
most of them horrific.

Maybe that's because finding a good news story

is increasingly tough to do.

Maybe it's a cultural thing.

But maybe it's a church thing, too.

Maybe we have mislaid

our sense of wonder,

that overwhelming well of gratitude and praise

that winds like a shimmering ribbon throughout so much of our Holy Book,
most especially the gospel narratives that

tell us about the life of Jesus.

So let me ask you a question:

When was the last time that you were truly amazed by Jesus?

I mean, stopped in your tracks,

drop to your knees,

dumbstruck,

bleary and teary-eyed

at who Jesus is and what Jesus does?

It's so easy to become slightly blase about the whole thing sometimes.
Oh, yeah, Jesus is a great guy - loves little kids, lives simply, must have been a quiet sorta fella,

don't you think?

Yawn.

But start reading Mark and those yawns

will be stifled pretty darn fast.

The people of Capernaum, that little backwater town in Galilee,
they were stunned.

The man in the synagogue -

did you catch that -

in the synagogue

who had an evil spirit within -

both he and the spirit were slack-faced with wonder

and fear.

Peter's mother-in-law, the one who was too sick to serve,

she was pretty bug-eyed, too.

And then all those townspeople,

the ones who crowded around the front door

of Peter's house that night.

Dumbfounded.

Jubilant.

Amazed.

Here was someone who spoke and taught with authority.

Here was someone whom the powers of evil

knew instinctively was their nemesis.

Someone with whom evil was totally incompatible.

Here was someone who cared about

his friends and their families.

Here was someone who had compassion on an entire town -
and who showed that compassion by 'healing many.'

Our pastor noted that the first step to healing

is to rout out evil.

That's the first little nugget in this narrative -

the spirit of evil is noisy and chaotic.

Jesus is calm and clear:

"Shut up. Get out."

Can we do that to the evils that beset us,

those voices,

temptations,

habits,

thoughts

that fill us with chaos and noise?

It's time to be released from the noise,

to lean into the calm,

to be amazed at the gracious,

authoritative healing power of our God.

Our service ended with a time of anointing,

of coming forward to be blessed,

touched by the oil of grace,

prayed over.

One of my very favorite things ever

in my years of pastoral ministry.

And, at the very last minute,

I was invited to stand in front of the kneeler

and pray for some of the hurting ones who came forward.

While the congregation sang, about a dozen people found their way to the front.

Each one amazed,

each one open,

each one blessed.

And I?

I was the most blessed of all.

For I stood on holy ground,

lifted by the music,

surrounded by the people of God,

amazed at the power of grace

all over again.

Linking with Michelle DeRusha and Jen Ferguson and Jennifer Lee and Ann Voskamp
this Monday night.

Sunset on the Bluffs

2012-01-30T21:44:00.000-08:00

Dick was in Chicago for board meetings on Friday.

Lilly came to play for a couple of hours in the morning,

and Eric picked her up about 11:00.

"Whatcha doing for dinner tonight, Mom?"

"Oh, nothing much. Got some leftover chili..."

"Have you taken your walk yet?"

"Nope."

"Well, why don't you meet us at the bluffs

in Carpinteria and take your walk

with us tonight.

Then we can go out to dinner."

What a grand idea!

Nothing quite like an invitation from your children, right?

So I drove my way through the small neighborhood
which borders the oceanside path.

Their family of four had walked down from their home and were waiting when I drove up.

"Can you believe this view is right here, Mom?

We can walk here.

Isn't that something?"

That's something, all right.

I will admit to liking this view a lot, too.

Two girls in the fading light.

Especially the pink boots.

So we set off to the south.

Mama and Dada and Gracie and Lilly

and me.

We were heading to the seal rookery.

Yes, we have one of those nearby -

not those gigantic guys I wrote about here -

but your normal, everyday sea lions,

many of them heavy with pups.

To get there, we walked along the edge of the bluffs,

through the eucalyptus woods,

by the oil refinery, hidden just north of the train tracks.

The rookery is right on the beach next to the oil company pier.

Great care is taken to be sure this area is protected from undue noise or confusion, so that these mamas can rest, give birth and nurse their young.

The Chumash Indians who used to live in these parts
came to these headlands to build their canoes.

Why?

Because of the copious amounts of black pitch
available right on the beach -

oil -

that precious commodity of 21st century life,

that bane of environmentalism,

oil seeps right through the sand all along this shore.

The off-shore rigs have actually helped keep the beaches accessible, in an oddly ironic meet-up of modern technology and environmental science.

Within the next few weeks, all of these

sausage-like creatures will push out new pups,

and the place will be ringing with the noises

of new life.

Trying out a new camera as the sun sets into the sea.

Checking out the seals and the birds, too.

A greater egret and a brown pelican rest for a moment before heading to their roosts for the night.

The Surfliner heads east and then south to San Diego,

sending out its mournful, evocative cry all along the way.

Even the intrusion of spidery equipment looks

quieter and dreamier in the last of the sunlight.

And a telephoto close-up reveals the striped glory of sky

and sea as night approaches.

I have lived in Santa Barbara for 15 years.

I've been down to my local beach countless times.

I've traveled to other Santa Barbara beaches weekly.

But I'd never been to these bluffs in Carpinteria

until my son suggested I come and see.

I never stop learning from my kids -

and that's exactly as it should be, I think.

It was a lovely walk.

And a great dinner, too.

"From all eternity, Lord, you are.
The waters have lifted up, O Lord,
the waters have lifted up their voice,
the waters have lifted up their thunder.
Greater than the roar of mighty waters,
more glorious than the surgings of the sea,
The LORD is glorious on high.
Truly your decrees are to be trusted.
Holiness is fitting to your house,
O LORD, until the end of time."

Psalm 93:2c-5

Joining with L.L. and Laura for their weekly sign-up - as playdates go, this was a fave.

And as far as a sense of place? Oh yeah, this spot has it in spades.

The Light of the Lord's Face: Still Saturday & Sunday!

2012-01-28T22:25:00.000-08:00

"What can bring us happiness?" many say.

Lift up the light of your face upon us, O LORD.

You have put into my heart a greater joy

than they have from abundance of corn and new wine.

I will lie down in peace and sleep comes at once.

For you alone, LORD, make me dwell in safety.

Psalm 4:7-9, the Grail translation

Joining with Deidra at JumpingTandem and Sandy at SandraHeskaKing (widget promised soon!) for their new(ish) invitations to be still on the weekends.

What a lovely idea.

It's orchid season here on the central coast and the warehouses are full to bustin' with glorious color and shape.

When Life is a Struggle: The THC Book Club

2012-01-28T21:49:00.000-08:00

(The book we are studying, in case you are joining in after the first two installments - which can be found on my blog here for the first segment, covering the introduction and the first 3 chapters, and here, for chapters 4-6, is David Brooks' book, The Social Animal: the Hidden Sources of Love, Character and Achievement. The prime point of discussion begins with the wonderful writing and observations of Laura Boggess over at The High Calling. This was a birthday week for me, so I am very late in contributing to the discussion and, as a disclaimer, I must admit that I have not yet read any of the other blogs, including lovely Laura's. That shall be remedied anon, I promise!)

My parents, on their wedding day and many years later.

Their story shares some slight - accent on the word slight! - similarities to that of Erica and Harold's.*

At last, we meet Erica. The other half of this fascinating and complicated story about the forces that form us into who we are. And I, for one, am delighted to make her acquaintance. Erica comes from a very differently storied environment than does Harold, and reading about how her life unfolds is both startling and intriguing.

These three chapters about her are titled, "Norms," "Self-Control," and "Culture," and they are rich with interesting, and sometimes controversial, information. Erica, you see, comes from what most people would call a highly dysfunctional family system, fathered by a mostly-absent Hispanic father, mothered (occasionally, between bouts with mental illness) by a Chinese-American mother. She and her mother cycle in and out of both poverty-stricken and working class neighborhoods, setting Erica up for what might seem to be a pre-determined future of struggle and failure.

But Brooks chooses to take a different route: he describes how Erica, through the intervention of a counter-cultural high school environment and the loving, though flawed, attention of both of her large, extended families, is able to succeed in ways far beyond most indicators and projected outcomes.

Most intriguing to me in the first of these three chapters were the discussions about "emergent systems" and "Gloomy Prospect" thinking and behavior, the latter often a byproduct of the former. Like our brains, our marriages, our cultures, poverty is an emergent system because the causes and contributors it are many and varied. Trying to pull one causal element out of the mix for some kind of 'fixing' is nearly impossible and just about always doomed to failure.

Instead, new thinking is required; the transformation of personalities and experiences by immersion in a completely different system. That system for Erica is the Academy high school she brazenly pushes her way into. Reading about how this system worked its 'magic' through their diverse and wholistic approach - offering counseling, medical care, new thinking, long hours, high demand and one-on-one interaction with teachers and coaches - was truly eye-opening. As I read about how and why the founders of this particular school succeeded in changing the ethos of their students, thus dramatically improving their chances for breaking free of the inter-generational cycle of poverty in which they were trapped - I found myself reflecting on my own recent professional past. This story underscored for me the importance of presenting the whole gospel to the cultures within which we live and work. The work of the church should never be restricted to gathering conversion-notches on our belts. Instead, we need to be practicing love and living gospel truth by reaching out to people in all areas of their lives, by seeing people as whole persons.

The themes that emerged from the next two chapters also resonated with a lot of what I have been learning and practicing in my own spiritual journey over the last fifteen to twenty years. These are the ideas (and the reflections they invited) that spoke most clearly to me:

1.) the power of anxiety to change the very structure of our brains (perhaps this is why, "Fear not!" is one of the most frequent imperatives in scripture?)

2.) the remarkable interplay between our conscious and unconscious selves

(we are integrated creatures and God meets us in every part of who we are)

3.) the use of the imagination in helping us to learn healthy habits (the value of dreams, imagined outcomes, hopes)

4. Self-control can be nurtured and strengthened by a whole series of small choices that center on the task at hand

(removing the egotistic self from the center of life)

5.) the primary power of how we see things in the decision making process

("those with eyes to see...")

6.) the tremendous impact of the community in which we live on the formation of our individual character

(how much of the story of scripture is centered around this whole idea? the chosen people in the OT, the church in the NT?)

7.) the import of paying attention in developing strong character (almost all contemplative spirituality begins with this truth)

8.) the influence of practice and repetition on the development of talents/skills

(the role of things like scripture memory and regular habits of prayer and study in the spiritual formation process)

9.) the force of positive self-interpretation in determining outcomes

(learning to see ourselves as loved and valued - by God and others - is crucial to growing in faith)

10.) the uniquely human ability and predisposition to teach, to hand on culture, to build "scaffolds that guide future thought."

(the call in Deuteronomy 6 to teach our children, the entire rabbinic structure into which Jesus moved so readily and his call to us to teach what we have learned)

The least successful part of Brooks' presentation came near the end of Chapter 9, Culture. He cites the work of Thomas Sowell who argues that cultures are not only intrinsically different, but also differently successful. For me, this argument only holds if we insist on a western view of 'success.' Having lived for 2 years in an African nation where none of our markers for success (upward mobility, salary, status) are valued, I had to fight the urge to feel superior to a people whose values were very different from those with which I was most familiar. The people of the southern province of Zambia value community, connection, paying attention to the intricacies of conversation, and are deeply committed to tradition. I would not choose to live there forever nor to absorb their cultural values. But I do hesitate to say that mine are better just because they're mine. Some of this rang true to me, but a lot of it was troubling. It cuts to the heart of some of the difficulties of the modern missionary movement - where western culture was imported along with the gospel. Thankfully, that has changed a lot over the last 40 years!

By the end of her college career, after eight years of observation and learning in both high school and college, Erica distilled everything into these three life maxims: 1.) Think in networks; (we are all embedded in multiple ones) 2.) Be the glue; (always work in an environment of high trust and do all you can to be a conduit of it.) (3.) Be an Idea-Space Integrator. (standing at the junction of two ideas can be a place for success and connection - fill any existing gaps in information and/or in trust.)

I look forward to learning how Erica implements these maxims in her future life, both professionally and personally. Seeing how this young woman with seemingly few prospects grew into a determined, self-controlled, committed young adult was fascinating. Surely, sparks of all kinds will fly when she and Harold connect!

*The differences between the home 'cultures' of my parents were not nearly as dramatic as those of Harold and Erica. But...my father was raised by southerners committed to education, had two parents with middle-class jobs (accountant and school teacher, when she worked before she had children), was catered to, showcased and favored by his mother (to the extent that it made him physically sick for one entire school year), was successful academically and musically. My mother was raised by Canadians from the working class (father a binge alcoholic jack-of-all-trades {butcher/gardener} and a mother in retail sales who didn't spend much time at home). Education was not a value in her home, although she did attend college for two years - until the money ran out. The counter-culture for my mom was the church her parents dropped her off at each week - it's where her gifts were affirmed, her primary friendships were formed (many of them lasting 50 years or more) and where she met my dad. The two of them filled the gaps for one another and together, they worked hard to create a happy and healthy home life for me and my brothers. I'm curious to see what Erica and Harold do with their own family, if they have one.

Five Minute Friday: Tender

2012-01-27T16:22:00.000-08:00

Yes, it is Friday once again. Seems like it rolls around a little bit earlier each and every week. Lisa-Jo's invitation still stands and now about 200 folks are signing in each week with their 5 minute, unscripted, unedited posts on the prompt of the day. Just writing, whether it's 'just right' or not. So, in a minute, I'll set the timer and see what comes. Try it - you'll like it!

Prompt this week: TENDER

The sweetest feet on the planet belong to this girl.
Are these the cutest or what??

Go:

She was only about 18 months old,

already talking a blue streak

and often including some of her

newly learned vocabulary

in the 'project' of the moment.

That day, she was playing with two of her

favorite 'dolls' -

a very old, very dingy Cabbage Patch infant,

and a somewhat larger

orange-haired Zoe doll

(you know, the character from Sesame Street)

which she inexplicably insisted was

really Abby

(another character from that life-and-sanity-saving bit of television history).

We'd taken her in the yard for a walk earlier

that day, in a stroller I found somewhere

for a good price,

and it was still sitting in the living room,

waiting to be scooted out of sight

after Lilly went home.

She immediately commandeered it,

placing her two friends neatly into the

seat, adjusting their clothes a little,

making sure each one was comfortable.

From that day on,

Baby and Zoe were in that stroller

every Wednesday and many Fridays.

The day I am remembering happened
the week following her initial discovery of this grand new addition to

her child-care game.

Her daddy dropped her off, as usual,

and, after helping herself to Poppy's breakfast,

checking out a few additional toys

in the baskets we keep for her,

she found her way to the stroller,

not aware that I was watching.

Carefully and tenderly,

she bent over one side.

"You okay?" she asked Baby.

Waiting a beat, as if for an answer,

she walked around to the other side,

leaned in again and said,

"You okay?"

Apparently they were both doing fine.

But I was struck by how very early our children
begin to mimic what we do, what we say.

How many times had her parents, her sister,
her other grandparents, we ourselves - how many times had we leaned over her,

carefully and tenderly, and said,

"You okay, Lil? You doin' okay?"

It's lovely to see that sometimes,

sometimes,

parents and grandparents get it right!

STOP

I got interrupted by a phone call, so this one probably got about 2 extra minutes (and a few edits here and there, too).

Looking Long at the Sea

2012-01-26T21:05:00.000-08:00

I paid attention when he spoke.
"Sit and look at the sea," he said.
"Look a long time.
Look long enough to become
the sea looking back at you.
Then tell me what you see.
I think you'll like it."

So I went to the sea.
I sat in the sun,
high on a bluff.
And I looked long.
I looked wide.
I breathed slow,
and I moved slow,
and I was slow.

And here is what I saw.

Islands, off in the distance,
a low layer of fog
pushed up against them,
like the covers
in a bed just left.

Kelp beds, red and brown,
swaying with the tide,
housing life
deep down,
where I cannot see.
I know it's there,
moving, feeding,
following the rhythm
of the water.

LIGHT,
sprinkled across
the surface of the sea,
light.
Dancing, winking,
blinking, blinding.
I see light.
And I am undone.

Mesmerized by the motion,
caught by the pattern.
One spot, shining bright.
Then two or three more,
then hundreds of them as
the wave reaches its zenith.
See that thread of molten silver
as the water breaks against
the sand!

For just the briefest of moments,
enough for a breath or two,
I know the sea,
I am the sea,
And I see myself as lovely.

Loved.

See for yourself: (and listen, too.)

We're experiencing a winter heat-wave here on the central coast. It was nearly 80 degrees today, and beautifully clear. Somehow, my parking spot was perfectly situated to see these cascades of moving light as I sat and contemplated the magnificence of the sea. I watched for a little over an hour. I was actually anxious about trying this. Generally, I have a book to read, a lunch to eat, a nap to take when I park at the beach. Trying to imagine sitting and looking for a long stretch was hard to do. The actual doing of it? Divinely wonderful, amazing, restful, moving, sacred. I've been told that this experience can be replicated by choosing any natural location that is beautiful to you - your own back yard might work just fine. The point is to sit in contemplation for a long stretch of time - 1 to 2 hours. Finding the time is probably the biggest challenge - but I am now hoping to do this regularly and will make the time somehow.

A Grandfather Pastor? I Think So.

2012-01-25T23:26:00.000-08:00

He walks quietly across the lawn,

laden with fallen palm fronds,

speaking softly to the small person who follows in his wake.

She is busy, looking at flowers,

discovering sour grass,

looking for birds.

They are content together,

the two of them drifting slowly towards the driveway.

She squints a little,

facing into the sunshine.

And then the smile breaks and I hear her laugh.

He has asked her a question -

who knows what it is.

And she laughs and says,

"I no know. I no know, Poppy. I NO KNOW."

Ah, but I do.

I know that this man is a good man,

a faithful one,

and an earnest and committed follower of Jesus.

And he happens to be gifted with children.

He always has been,

especially small ones.

And anytime he's with a toddler,

or a pre-schooler,

or even an elementary student,

he gives them undivided attention.

He delights in their presence,

their growing intelligence and understanding,

their open-heartedness.

And he lives the gospel when he's with them.

As I have reflected on Sunday's sermon,
I have thought a lot about this man.

This good man who happens to be my husband.

We're in the midst of a series called,

"What Time Is It?"

And each week, the topic for the morning follows

that introductory phrase,

"It's Time to...,"

finished this week by "...Repent and Go Fishin'"
We were in Mark 1 on Sunday,

that scene where Jesus sees some men fishing and

challenges them to come away

from their nets for a while.

He calls them to repent, to follow him,

and then...

to go fishing -

fishing for people,

not just sea creatures.

They're in for an adventure, these fishermen,

an adventure that begins with who they are,

and where they are.

And Pastor Jon just nailed it.

There were several lovely points woven through his narrative, but this is the one that stuck with me the most,

the one I've been ruminating on as I watch my husband

in this second year of our shared retirement:

Not one of the people that Jesus called to follow him

was a religious 'professional.'

Every one of them was called

in the context of what they were already doing.

And that's where the adventure began.

Where it begins for each of us.

Nothing is secular,

everywhere has the potential to be sacred space.

We are all called,

every single one of us.

If we follow after the good news of Jesus,

we are called right where we are.

Every job is a mission field,

every person we meet is a gift of grace,

every word we offer has the potential

to be gospel good news for someone, somewhere.

Here is the takeaway quote for me this week:

"Jesus is not calling us to church work;

Jesus is calling us to follow him in our work,

whatever that may be."

So, if you're raising babies and toddlers,

and able to stay at home with them -

there is your good news platform.

If you're in an office, behind a bank window,

standing in front of a classroom,

driving a cab, rising early to bake bread,

serving food in a restaurant,

or moving into the new rhythms of retirement -

wherever you are,

there is where you are called,

there is where YOU are a pastor.

So I watch my husband pastor our granddaughter,

as he has every one of our children and our grandchildren,

as well as many of the children in every church

we have ever attended.

And I thank God that he has heard the call of Jesus

so clearly;

that he has responded so obediently;

that he is living the good news...

right where he is.

How about you?

Joining with Michelle and with Emily and with Bonnie this Wednesday night:

A SLO Day: Spiritual Direction

2012-01-24T23:30:00.000-08:00

SLO stands for San Luis Obispo, a town 115 miles north of my home.

This was our late-lunch view today, as we traveled home again.

One day each month,

I take a road trip.

This particular road trip is not like

the other ones I take.

I'm not going to take care of my mother.

I'm not going to enjoy my children and my grandchildren.

I'm not going on vacation.

Strike that.

I am going on a vacation, of sorts.

I am vacating the usual rhythm of my days

to embrace a different one.

And I find that I am hungry for re-creation as I travel.

I am eager to be addressed as...

me.

Not as wife/mother/grandmother/daughter/

pastor/teacher/friend.

Just me.

Child of God.

Stumbling follower of Jesus.

Seeker after wisdom.

And this is where I go.

A strange looking monastery,

one that used to be the 'dream house'

of a retired dentist,

but was bought by some monks

from New Mexico to be their community home.

The monastery is the long white,

red-tiled house to the left in this shot.

To the right of the drive, is the chapel & bookshop

with a couple of additional bedrooms.

To the left of the drive, below the monastery itself,

is the home of Connie, the oblate who lives on the premises

and assists the brothers.

There are only five or six of them now,

praying the hours,

assisting the people of a dozen parishes

with healing prayer, special masses and spiritual direction.

This is where I meet my spiritual director every month.

The sign says it all:

And this is the view from that house,

in the springtime,

when all the hills are green and the sky is blue.

And this is the man I meet with in that house:

Abbott David.

Spiritual Father to this small band,

and an acclaimed leader in the

charismatic renewal movement

of the Roman Catholic Church.

He is a remarkable man, gifted and humble.

Did I ever tell you how we met?

Now, that's a great story.

"Once upon a time, there was a tired pastor,

full to overflowing with the needs of her congregation,

the struggles in her family.

She had tried direction a couple of times,

with mixed results.

"Not a good fit," was the diagnosis,

whatever that means.

For her, it felt like failure.

And she is not a fan of failure.

So she began to pray about it,

to search for someone.

She even went online, used Google

and found a monastery website.

Not a fancy, bells-and-whistles kind of place,

that website.

And the monastery featured there was over 100 miles away.

But something caught her eye,

her spirit.

And email responses were invited.

So she sent off a note.

"Is there anyone there interested and available

to offer direction to a tired

female pastor,

one who needs listening ears,

wise words,

some guidance along the way?"

That was in July of 2007.

Nothing came back.

Sigh.

So, she got on with life,

a life that was feeling a bit overwhelming

about then.

And she forgot all about that note.

One early morning, in September of the following year,

FOURTEEN MONTHS

after her initial inquiry,

her cell phone rang.

Puzzled at the early hour, she picked it up.

"Abbott David here," a strong, friendly voice declared.

"You wrote about spiritual direction?"

And she burst into laughter.

"Yes," she said. "I did. Over a year ago!"

"Really?" came the response.

"Because I just received this yesterday.

Would you like to meet with me and see if this

might be what you're looking for?"

They set a date for one week later,

she drove up the 101, took the country road out to

his place and sat,

absolutely fascinated and astounded as he told

her his story.

Raised on a farm in Wisconsin,

paid his way through college by playing

trumpet in a dance band,

became a priest,

sent by his order to

study in Rome,

multi-lingual,

specialist in Jungian psychology

and dream analysis.

"If you work with me, you'll keep a dream journal.

And that's what we'll talk through each month."

She was hooked - line, sinker, bobble, lure -

the whole kit and caboodle.

"Thank you, Jesus," she cried to the heavens as she headed south again

at the end of the hour.

Before their next visit,

there was a tragic death in her immediate family.

And before the following visit,

there was a ferocious wildfire in her community,

stripping lifetime memories from many in her congregation.

Within the first year, she herself landed in the hospital, was forced to make a major shift in her own training

program to become a director herself,

and by the second year, she was enrolled in the Abbott's school for spiritual direction certification.

Not sure that she lived happily ever after,

but deeper ever after? That would be a big 'yes.'"

Now I would call that whole tale

a God-thing.

My friend Jennifer might call it "God-Bumps" or a "God-Incidence."

All I can tell you is that my entire spiritual journey

took a decisive turn upward from the moment

I heard that voice on the phone:

"Abbot David here. You wrote....?"

Abbott David leading mass in the monastery chapel.

Today, I had only one dream for the month.

Of my own, that is.

I also shared a tricky one from someone I am directing.

Somehow, this kind, brilliant man

(who has been seriously ill this year)

wove those two together, asked me some penetrating

questions, and helped me think about myself

in some new ways.

"You've spent your whole life relying on your left brain, Diana, your intellect.

It's time to learn to trust your gut, your intuition.

You need to spend long stretches of time just sitting and looking at the ocean.

Do that long enough so that eventually, you find yourself on the other side of the picture - you'll be the ocean, looking back at you.

And take a look at what you see when that happens.

I think you'll like what you find.

Be still long enough to let the beauty in,

to let God in,

to shift inside from reason to intuition.

Learn to trust that,

to know that God meets you there, too.

This is the gift of aging, Diana.

There is gift in all of life."

I sure hope he's right.

I'm counting on it.

Stopping at Costco on our way home this evening,

I looked up from loading the bags into the back of the car and saw this.

My gut said, "Grab that camera, even if it is the little one,

even if the picture won't be sharp."

So I did.

The gift of the present moment.

Right brain all the way.

Joining with Jennifer and her "God-Bumps" meme. And with Ann and Jen, too.

Five Minute Friday: Vivid

2012-01-20T22:34:00.000-08:00

Late again for Lisa-Jo's weekly invite to write it out without worrying about whether it's 'just right' or not. This week's prompt is skittering around this brain and I'm not sure where it's going to land. Hmmmm....

The prompt this week is VIVID

Yup. That's what I thought about all this stuff that happened! Are you kidding me??

GO:

When I was five years old, my mother took me shopping. This was a rare occurrence, as we lived on a school teacher's salary and didn't often shop for anything other than groceries. She took me to a department store, to the toy section and led me gently to the row where the dolls were located.

"Choose anyone you want, honey. It's a special gift, just for you."

So I did. I chose a sweet Betsy-Wetsy doll, the one who wet her diapers if you inserted a small bottle into the perfectly shaped hole in her mouth. I was delighted with my new friend and thanked my mother profusely.

However, just a few short hours later, I was far from grateful. I was terrified. The doll was meant to help me get through a coming tonsillectomy - something I did not understand in the slightest when my parents told me about it.

"We're going to have the doctor cut out those things in your throat that are making you sick all the time, Diana. You're going to feel so much better."

Yeah, right.

The surgery was done in the doctor's office, which included a small area for this 'simple' procedure. I remember the ether mask coming down over my frightened face.

And then I remember waking up to a splotch of bright red blood on my pillow, and anxious whisperings all around me.

"We can't control this bleeding, Mrs. Gold. We must get her to Our Lady of Angels Hospital immediately. Yes, we'll call an ambulance to do it."

The ambulance ride was a big disappointment. They refused to turn the siren on! What kind of an ambulance ride is it if they don't turn on the siren?

I was placed in a crib with high metal bars all round. The nuns glided by, bringing me constant bowls of...cream of rice cereal. Bleargh. And it was impossible to eat anything anyhow because...they staunched the flow of blood by inserting into the back of my throat....two very large...TEABAGS. Yes. Teabags. Apparently tannic acid is a coagulant. Who knew?

I spent one week in that scary place, alone in my crib, with my parents allowed near me only a few short hours each day. And then I had to go and stay with my great aunt for TWO WHOLE WEEKS because my own home was too far from the hospital for after care.

What good is a Betsy-Wetsy doll in that kind of world?

This is my most vivid early memory, an event which shaped my life in profound ways, some of which I am still unwrapping.

But that's for an entirely different kind of post, isn't it??

STOP. (2 minutes extra)

What Makes a Student? The THC Book Club

2012-01-20T21:49:00.000-08:00

Two views of the one room schoolhouse on the LBJ Ranch near Fredricksburg, Texas

At the tender age of 15, I entered the classroom of Arthur Bottaro with fear and trembling. He was short, imposing, intense, demanding and highly intelligent. Mr. Bottaro taught 11th grade Honors English at Glendale High School, and he was perhaps the single most important teacher in my life.

In his class, we were expected to write weekly book reviews and essays and we were to type them on ditto paper. Please remember that I went to high school in the dark ages, before either Xerox or mimeograph machines. I went to school in the era of carbon paper - and dittos. A ditto master consisted of two parts - a front sheet of specially coated typing paper and a back sheet, laden with purple ink. The letters typed on the top sheet would pick up the ink from the back sheet and then the type-covered master would be attached to a drum that was hand-cranked to produce copies from its inked back side.

And why did we have to reproduce our work? Because copies of each and every written assignment were made and distributed to every member of the class. Then we proceeded to rip each others' work to pieces, under the studious, challenging glare of our highly dramatic and talented teacher. I was scared to death about 90% of the time - but that year-long experience is the crucible in which I learned to write clearly, succinctly, honestly and reasonably well.

I thought a lot about Mr. B as I read chapters 3-6 of David Brooks' fascinating book, "The Social Animal," the most recent selection of the Book Club at The High Calling website. This week's assignment takes us through the development of our lead character, Harold, by looking at how the human brain grows, changes and expands from infancy through high school.

From the amazingly high rate of synapses formed during the first three years of life (called synaptogenesis):

"If you want to get a sense of the number of potential connections between the cells in Harold's brain, contemplate this: a mere 60 neurons are capable of making 10(to the 81st power) possible connections with each other. (That's 1 with 81 zeroes after it.) The number of particles in the known universe is about one-tenth of this number."

to the entirely unique pattern those synapses take in each one of our brains, and how repetition forms our "neural networks," which:

"...embody our experiences and in turn guide future action. They contain the unique way each of us carries himself in the world, the way we walk, talk, and react. They are the grooves down which our behavior flows. A brain is a record of a life. The networks of neural connections are the physical manifestation of your habits, personality, and predilections. You are the spiritual entity that emerges out of the material networks in your head."

Just as the ancient Hebrews believed, we are creatures who are all of a piece - head/heart/body/mind/spirit. And though Brooks, in his introduction, indicated that he would not be delving into the spiritual arena in this volume, he does not seem to be able to help himself. We are connected - to the various parts of ourselves - and to each other.

As I hoped he might, Brooks does look at how story-telling is an important part of intellectual and emotional development, noting that many of the stories we imagine in childhood carry over into adulthood, at least in terms of their tone, and in the way we think about life. An interesting contrast was made between 'paradigmatic thinking,' (which is "structured by logic and analysis") and 'mythic mode,' (which contains "another dimension...the dimension of good and evil, sacred and profane. This mythic mode helps people not only tell a story, but make sense of the emotions and moral sensations aroused by the story.") This distinction just may help me understand why my brother and I see the world so differently!

The sections in chapter 5 on parenting were deeply encouraging, underlining that good parenting does not require a graduate degree in psychology but rather depends on connections established early in life and continued at each stage of development. And it depends upon our modeling both resilience and problem-solving. The hackneyed phrase about giving our children both 'roots and wings' seems to have been proven in the social laboratories of our finest universities.

And the last few pages of that chapter reminded us with a powerful, storied example of how 'fearfully and wonderfully' we are made, with layer after layer of complexity that we cannot often see, much less navigate with success. "This is why," Brooks writes, "all biographies are inadequate; they can never capture the inner currents."

But it was in Chapter 6, where we are invited into Harold's high school experience, that we delve most deeply into the powerful impact a courageous and dedicated teacher can have on adolescents. From his analysis of cliques and the intricacy of the socialization process, Brooks underscores the primacy of reading social cues correctly. Our hero possesses supreme skills in the social arena. But in the classroom? He is lost at sea.

Until he encounters Ms. Taylor, a teacher with powerful insights into how the adolescent brain is structured. She also possesses a grand idea for matching students with their particular passion for learning. And here is where Mr. Brooks' writing and research began to resonate with me at a very deep level.

"Of course, Ms. Taylor wanted to impart knowledge, the sort of stuff that shows up on tests But within weeks, students forget 90 percent of the knowledge they learn in class anyway. The only point of being a teacher is to do more than impart facts; it's to shape the way students perceive the world, to help a student absorb the rules of a discipline. The teachers who do that get remembered. She didn't so much teach them as apprentice them...She forced them to make mistakes. The pain of getting things wrong and the effort required to overcome error creates an emotional experience that helps burn things into the mind. She tried to get students to interrogate their own unconscious opinions...She also forced them to work...She pushed. She was willing to be hated. Ms. Taylor's goal was to turn her students into autodidacts. She hoped to give her students a taste of the emotional and sensual pleasure discovery brings - the jolt of pleasure you get when you work hard, suffer a bit, and then something clicks. She hoped her students would become addicted to this process. They would become, thanks to her, self-teachers for the rest of their days."

And this, of course, is the place where I wrote Mr. B's name in the margin of my book. For in addition to a long list of books, we also talked about ideas; we particularly talked about how ideas IN books can change the world. We acted out scenes from Shakespeare and Wilder; we enjoyed earnest discussions about controversial reading material; we learned to take a book apart, by theme/characters/plot and then to put it back together again. We were encouraged, even demanded "to think on paper," as he used to say. Mr. B. was largely responsible for any academic success I enjoyed at UCLA and many years later, at Fuller Theological Seminary. Because Mr. B. gave me permission - and provided the expertise - to read anything and everything on multiple levels at once: analytically, emotionally, intellectually and experientially. And then he taught me how to write about it with clarity and occasionally, on a really good day, to write about it with grace.

He died of a heart attack, very suddenly, about a dozen years after I graduated, when he was about 17 years younger than I am now. And I never went back to say 'thank-you.' So tonight I will say it:

"Thank you, Mr. B., for your careful attention to each one of us and your unique teaching style with all of us together. Teachers like you are a gift to the world and I am forever grateful that you were a teacher of mine."

God Has GOT to Have a Sense of Humor

2012-01-19T23:37:00.000-08:00

Remember that trip we took?

The one on the winding road? Highway One?

You remember. I'm sure you do -

the one with views like this one?

Sun on the water, rocks and sand and surf?

Well, take a closer look at those rocks.

Especially that big one right in the middle of this picture.

Hey, wait a second!

That ain't no rock.

In fact, it's a seal.

A very particular kind of seal,

that hauls out on a very particular beach

called Piedras Blancas.

And you can park-and-view near this very particular beach.

And let me tell you, if you've ever wondered if there is

weird wonderfulness in this world,

this is the viewpoint where every single suspicion is confirmed.

These are elephant seals.

The males can weigh up to 8,800 pounds

and live for 20 years.

Their name comes from that strangely-shaped proboscis -

and their immense size.

And they are amazing to watch.

They spend 80% of their time in the water, diving deeply, eating a whole lot.

They haul out to breed,

to birth,

to rest.

And we get to watch it all.

These mamas are very attentive - for about five months.

Then they waddle off to swim away and the pups are on their own. All of them that survive that first year find their back to their birthing beach again and again.

And if the wrong mama gets near the pup?

Fuggedabout it.

The jig is up.

And sand will fly.

(Actually, the sand flying is just a way to keep cool

and moist as the sun beats down.)

It's an amazing sight.

Weird,

wild,

noisy,

a bit smelly,

and fascinating.

Stop by sometime, especially if you ever get the chance to visit San Simeon,

the Hearst castle on the hill.

This beach is just below there.

These are faces perhaps only a mother could love.

But to tell you the truth,

I think they're kinda cute.

In a strangely alarming sort of way.

And they pretty much convince me that God likes to smile.

Posting early, but will join with Laura's Playdates with God
and L.L's On, In and Around Mondays early next week.

The Primary Verb: FOLLOW

2012-01-19T22:02:00.000-08:00

Maybe it started with ... Abraham,

following the call of a God he barely knew,

a Voice in his ear,

in his heart.

Or maybe it was Jacob?

Finagling his way to a birthright,

following the north-eastern road to find safe harbor,

and discovering the God he never knew,

the One who was in 'this place.'

And then there was Joseph.

And Joseph didn't exactly 'follow,'

or did he?

Forced into Egyptian slavery,

yet ... always hearing,

always listening,

always hoping.

Always following.

Moses followed the Voice, too.

The Israelites followed the Cloud and the Pillar of Fire.

Sometimes.

It was hit and miss most of the time, actually;

the judges, the kings, the priests, the prophets.

Sometimes staying on the path;

sometimes not so much.

The magi followed the star,

Joseph followed the dreams,

Mary followed the promise.

And thirty years later, Jesus went on the road.

And over and over and over again,

he used one single verb:

follow.

Follow me, to be exact.

That verb came first; it came before

believe,

obey,

live,

love.

Follow.

At the heart of discipleship is this word,

this verb which comes from the root 'to hear.'

This is the 'essence of discipleship,'

our pastor said.

And I think he's right.

But here's something else I think:

it's a really, really tough gig.

Because, see, I want to follow.

Yes, I do.

I want to follow Jesus, no matter what,

no matter where.

But then...I see a promising rabbit trail,

that one over there that says,

"Let's Keep It Safe."

Or the one that takes me to a box,

a nice big one,

with square corners,

and clear borders.

Borders that are not terribly permeable.

This box keeps Jesus neatly within my

particular worldview,

removing the uncomfortable bits,

the tough stuff.

Like denying myself,

or taking up that cross.

Or selling all and giving it away.

Or becoming like a child.

If I can just keep Jesus inside,

where we can have tea once a day,

and talk about life -

well, that's the kind of following that seems doable.

There's another route I could choose, too.

In fact, I too often do.

I truly do follow Jesus,

right down the path.

But I sorta stop part way.

I take a pit stop,

right there in that part of the path

where it's just the two of us,

spending quality time together.

And that's the true path,

the good path.

But it isn't the whole path.

When I keep it close like that,

when I make it only about Jesus and me,

that's when I am most apt to

miss the adventure,

to miss the abundant life Jesus promised.

So here's to taking a bigger risk,

to letting go of that overwhelming need to be safe,

to breaking through the edges of the box,

to reaching out

as well as going deep.

Do I want to be a real disciple?

Or not?

Signing on with Michelle, Jennifer, Jennifer, Ann and Emily tonight.