Breathing in the Beauty - 2008 - Archive-Diving

This post was originally written about four years ago and was probably the first time 

I wrote about the restorative qualities of time spent at Butterfly Beach.

I kept personal posts off of the blog until the beginning of 2011 and am now 

editing a few of them as I prepare to transfer my blog to a new site.

You'll note that we were both still working at this point in time.

You'll also notice that I write about some of the very same themes today.

Last week, the weather turned warm and balmy. Dick had been in southern CA working from Tues-Thurs and it was Friday, with an afternoon off for both of us. I came back from errand running and said, "Let's drive down to the beach!"

We each picked up a book to read, drove the two miles straight down the hill and parked on the slope of Channel Drive, just above this old cypress tree. With both front windows down, the moon-roof open and the seats leaning about as far back as we could get them, we slowly sank into the beauty of this place in which we are blessed to live.

Winter is the best time of the year at the beach in Santa Barbara. No tourists. No crowds. The sun sets directly over the water, the dolphins and sea lions come in close to the shore and the birds hang out in droves.

We are both tired, the kind of tired that seeps into your bones. The kind of tired that has little connection to how much sleep or exercise you're getting. It's the kind of tired that builds up over many months of watching people you love suffer greatly. It's the kind of tired that comes from grieving the death of someone dear, and the related losses that come with that: the death of dreams and hopes and plans.

We know where this deep tiredness is coming from and we know it cannot be avoided. It's part and parcel of living to have to deal with grief and it cannot be gotten around, only walked through. But last Friday afternoon, we were so grateful for a chance to just sit and breathe in the beauty of God's world for a couple of hours.

Dick napped a little, I read a lot, and I just sat and looked out at the ocean a lot. The sight, sound and smell of the ocean is like medicine for what ails me - it truly brings healing and comfort. And a reminder that there is a bigness to God and to God's creation that can handle all the pain and struggle we suffer in this life. Perhaps even more powerfully true than that, it is a reminder to look for the beauty around us, wherever it can be found. And to take a little time to savor it and let it speak.

Of Rainclouds and Wildfires

 It rained on the way south this week.

Nothing dramatic,

but a welcome sign that the season is finally shifting

into true Fall.

 I remember that rain is a good, good thing--

when it comes at the right time,

and in the right amount.

Just a few short days ago, this was our view

for about 75 anxious minutes.

 That day was hot--over 90 degrees,

and this fire was close enough to see flames

and to evacuate dozens of homes at the top of our hill.

 But a bright-red-bird brought gallons of sea water

up onto the dry hillside,

and a deep-bellied tanker dropped red dust

all down the fire line,

and this time, we were spared the fury of a wildfire.

However, there are all kinds of wildfires in this life.

And we're in the middle of one just now.

My mother is enduring a kind of fire 

for which there is no antidote, short of death.

No red-bird-miracle-water-drops,

no magic dust.

And of all the wildfires our family has survived 

in the past half dozen years, this one is, 

in some ways, the worst one yet,

at least for me.

Because, you see, my mother knows she is ablaze,

that she is being slowly but surely ravaged,

that all that has been lush and green is now turning to ash.

She knows it.

And that is the hardest part of all.

We will have to make some difficult decisions 

in the next few weeks. 

And she will be terrified 

and she will feel betrayed 

and she will wonder why. 

So today, I am praying for wisdom.

And grace.

And I am searching for ways to be grateful

and mean it,

for ways to link my lament to praise,

for the strength and will 

to relinquish my own fears and grief. 

Many weeks ago I submitted an essay to Rachel Held Evans'

Women of Valor series. 

I wrote one about my mother,

and how hard it is to see her struggling at this end

of her long, good life.

It will be published as the last in the series on December 8th. 

On that day, I will come back here and give you a link

to Rachel's website,

and I hope you'll follow it over to read my heart.

I will not write further about her now,

except to say this much:

I love my mother very much,

I am more grateful for her than I can possibly

put into words.

Our relationship is long and complicated,

filled with so much good--

and a few things that have taken therapy to sort out!

But if I were given the privilege of choosing my mother--

I would choose her, in a heartbeat.

In.A.Heartbeat.

Although this particular reflection does not fit any of these themes, I will join this one with Jennifer Lee, Emily Wierenga, Duane Scott, Cheryl Smith and Ann Voskamp.

31 Days in which I Am Saved by Beauty - Day 25

This has been a physically and emotionally taxing week.

I spent 7 hours on Monday and 7 hours on Tuesday,

in a very nice, but very small car with two friends,

driving up and down this state. 

While I was away from home,

a personal post of mine, written for another site,

showed up at the same time as

a post with a different point of view

was playing right next door -

on the same site. 

The discussion that ensued online

was rich, but often difficult

and sometimes very painful

on several counts. 

While I sometimes agreed with

the position being argued by the more strident

voices, I was strongly against the tone of

those arguments and wondered if we could

learn to talk civilly about it - ever. 

Today, for some reason, I feel less hopeful about that

than I did two days ago. 

I'm not sure why.

Maybe because I've got a lousy cold.

Maybe because my husband flew to Chicago

for two days of meetings this morning.

Maybe because someone I love is ill. 

Maybe because as I sat at the beach today,

puzzled by the presence of FOUR Highway Patrol vehicles,

I was stunned to see a coroner's van pull up,

and watched in shock and dismay

as the body of a man about my age

was forcibly pulled out of his small Honda CR-V.

I prayed for him and his family as I watched.

And I wondered how he selected the wording

of his license plate, which read MESA LVR.*

He had blonde/white hair and nice-looking slacks,

and he apparently died while sitting in his car,

admiring the view. 

I suppose there are worse ways to die,

but still. It was sobering.

So, for whatever reason, I find myself feeling 

pensive tonight.

While in this lack-luster mood,

I flashed through a few of the photographs

I took out the window of that small car on Tuesday.

I shot these pictures through the windshield

as we drove back home, into the setting sun,

following a blustery rainstorm the previous day. 

And as I looked at them, I was reminded again

that beauty stirs my soul like nothing else.

I was also reminded that even a difficult, painful week

can be at least partially redeemed by

the beauty of the ordinary,

the everyday glory of

the sky, the hills,

the vineyards, the trees, 

the beauty around me.

So -- for today, for tonight, 

here are some reminders --

for me and for you --

of found beauty,

even in the middle of

of tough and tiring times.

Except for the pictures of fall color (which were taken at an In 'n' Out, where we took a bathroom and cold drink break), all of these pictures were shot through the front or side window of a Volvo sedan going about 70mph. And they leave me speechless tonight. Thank you, Lord, for glimpses of glory all along the way. 

*The Mesa is a Santa Barbara neighborhood across town, situated on the bluffs overlooking the harbor.

The Long Unraveling: A Deeper Family

My husband as a newborn with his beautiful mother.

Today is my day to post over at A Deeper Family.

It is such a privilege to write in this space,

where honesty is encouraged,

and going deeper is invited.

You can click this sentence to finish reading in that space...

The tension in the car is thick enough to choke on. My husband begins his litany of things-wrong-with-the-world, something he’s been doing with alarming frequency of late. It makes me tired. Long, loud sighs begin to whoosh from deep inside, as I sit next to him, at my perch behind the steering wheel. Finally, I decide to face into it more directly and ask, with the tiniest hint of superiority, “Can you tell me one thing you’re grateful for right now? Just one? All this negativity is exhausting.”

Silence.

We pull into the underground parking at the health facility where his mother now lives. She is 96-years-old, very frail, fading away like a mirage on a desert highway.

And this is the truth of it: we are waiting for her to die. There it is, in the harsh light of day, like brown, barren sticks in wintertime - we are waiting for her to die.

Perhaps that explains the litany, the sighs.

Twice each week, we make the 20-minute drive across town to sit with her at lunch, watching her not eat. Some days, we rouse her from a deep, gasping sleep. Some days, she is already awake. Always, we get the walker from across the room, remind her how to stand up, gently comb her hair and very slowly walk with her down the hall to the dining room. . . 

Please follow this link to read the entire piece at A Deeper Family. Thanks so much.

An African Journey: Post Four - An African Wedding

At our wedding reception in December of 1965, 
one of my husband's oldest friends and his wife stood in line,  shook our hands, wished us well, and jokingly said,

"Hey! Maybe we'll see you in Africa!"

Ray and Dick were born just a few days apart and 'met' at the church their parents attended when they were infants.

They went to high school together and were part of a group of guys who kept connected through college and beyond.
Finding out that they were thinking about 

traveling around the world the same time we were?

Astoundingly good news!

And that's exactly what happened, eight months later.

Only their location was a little more in flux than ours,

we traveled on different ships,

and we weren't at all sure where they would end up

once we all got there.

As it turned out, for the first few months,

they were housed at a mission station in the bush, about 40 miles away from us. To get there required driving on this dirt road,

the same corrugated dirt road that we traveled 

nearly two years later when I went into labor.

There were villages located all through this area,

and all of the people who lived in them walked or rode their bikes to the mission for two primary reasons:

to receive quality medical care or

to get married in the chapel.

Every few weeks, we would drive out that road

to see how our friends were doing.

Or they would come charging into Choma,

often on the motorcycle they bought their first week there.

Their presence was a huge gift to us. Huge.

This was the small rondaval they called home for those months. It was one room, with a corrugated tin roof and an outhouse.

And you may remember how we lived . . .

in a stucco and brick house, with three bedrooms and indoor plumbing. 

Plus, we had electricity about 80% of the time.

And yes, we did feel more than a little guilty about

encouraging them to come on this adventure.

They both wanted to teach school, 

so while they waited for an assignment, 

they lived at Macha Mission. 

Ray managed this workroom, and used his considerable mechanical gifts to repair all kinds of things.

Anita made herself useful wherever she could and was 

so delighted when they rigged up cooking equipment in their small home.

Prior to that, they had to eat in the main house,

with a tribe of other workers.

Once in a while, that kind of community is a grand thing - if everyone is moderately compatible and easy-going.

But three meals a day, seven days a week?

It can be tough sledding.

In about our third month there, we had a true adventure together. 

There was a wedding at Macha - and we were invited!

The wedding was scheduled for about 10:00 a.m.,

but didn't begin until a little after noon.

Why?

Because in Zambia, it was customary for the groom 

to purchase the attire for the bride.

This groom didn't have a clue about sizing and the dress

he selected for his small wife-to-be was about four sizes too big. 

The entire mission staff was busily trying to make adjustments 

so that this girl could come down the aisle. 

Many safety pins and an improvised cummerbund later 

(made from a cloth diaper) - and, voila!

It worked and somehow the wedding happened.

Some western traditions were incorporated - like the clothes and the attendants. But one custom was entirely Tongan:

the bride never looked up, never smiled. Ever.

This was the most important and serious day of her life

and she was not supposed to make light of it in any way.

And she did not.

Following the ceremony, we were invited to the feast held in celebration of the new family - at the groom's village.

The women had been cooking for hours,

gifts had been gathered,

and the couple's new hut had been officially decorated . . .

by the groom, with new clothing, fabric and other gifts for his lovely bride.

We drove over a bike path, then a cow path, then through a small stream, where we had to get out and push the Kombi-bus. The bride and groom hitched a ride with us, however, so we knew the party couldn't begin until we got there.

The houses in the village were made of mud bricks, the roofs thatch. The smaller structures were grain storage bins because the staple food for this entire region is ensima, a porridge made from ground field corn. Every village kept a ready supply of the tough kernels in these small, raised huts, out of the reach of hungry warthogs and wandering cattle.

 In the morning, ensima is served thin, gruel-style. 

For meals later in the day, it is quite stiff and usually served with a relish - most often vegetables, but on special occasions, chicken or beef.

This was a special occasion and there was chicken cooking in the pots!

Meals were cooked communally and sometimes eaten together, 

sometimes in smaller family units.

On this day, we were ushered into the groom's hut and food was brought to us.

We felt overwhelmed and embarrassed by so much special attention, 

but had been told ahead of time what to expect 

and to just receive this hospitality for the lovely gift it was.

The groom's hut was not quite as large as this one and did not have windows,

but it was cozy and welcoming.

As I recall, I was not feeling at all well that day, but I was determined not to miss this once-in-a-lifetime experience!

You can just barely see that the groom has a good supply of both sugar and hand soap - high on the list of desirable products to own.

They brought us so.much.food - stiff corn meal mush and some stewed chicken to go with it. And we loved the enamel ware bowls it came in!

This was the view looking out the door of the groom's hut,

just a snapshot of village life.

After everyone had eaten their fill, the party began.

There was dancing,

and there was singing,

and there was gift-giving.

Each gift would be danced up to the couple -

a five-pound bag of sugar,

a box of tea,

a bar of soap or a box of soap flakes.

Everyone was delighted to be there and showered this

couple with love and generosity.

 About six weeks after this remarkable adventure,

Ray and Anita were moved 500 miles south of us

to one of the oldest mission stations of the denomination.

It was located in the beautiful, rocky landscape of the Matopos hills in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe.

Getting together got a lot more complicated.

We thanked God for the steam train and made the effort, however. 
And we got to see some gorgeous country in the process.

This is the school where Ray and Anita taught for nearly two years. They had indoor plumbing and generated electricity during daylight hours. They loved their students and made some long-time friends in this place.

Whenever we visited, they took us sight-seeing.

And there were such beautiful sights to see.

They came back to Zambia to visit us, too.

We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries together when we could, laughing and enjoying the long threads of our shared history.

Anita was one of the greatest friends of my life.

She taught me how to cook, how to laugh,

how to enjoy life.

She died one month before I began my life in Santa Barbara

and I have missed her ever since.

Ray was skilled at so many things and so generous with those skills! 

He and Dick shared many years of close friendship.

After we returned to the States, 

our families gathered every New Year's Eve and Day,

and vacationed together several times.

Those ties were begun here,

in our bright red kitchen and their hilltop adobe home.

Ties that connected us heart to heart,

soul to soul.

Sharing such life-changing experiences binds people 

in ways that are hard to describe or define.

But I am eternally grateful for all of it - 

the experiences,

the ties,

the friendship.

I am so very glad we had this cross-cultural 

adventure when we were young, 

but I find that what I miss now that I am not-so-young is 

not the adventure itself, but that sense of long history with heart-friends. 

It has never been replicated in our lives.

And as I look at these old pictures,

as I read the letters I sent home,

it is this connection that I miss the most.

There simply is no substitute for it.

Thank you, Ray and Anita, for loving us well

and sharing our lives for so many years.

I miss you.

I will join this at Jennifer's and at Emily's and at Duane's places. Also with Laura Boggess and with Michelle and Jen and the SDG: