My Mom - A Woman of Valor: Guest Post at RHE

My beautiful mom, picture taken by my sister-in-law, Sandy Gold, on Thanksgiving this year.

It is my honor to be posting in Rachel Held Evans' series on Women of Valor today. Last month, I told you I would give you a link to this essay when it came up today, and I will do that in just a moment. 

I submitted two essays to Rachel about mom - one outlined her wonderful life with a list of facts and tidbits. The second, which you will find if you click on this sentence came pouring out of me after I had submitted the first one. This is the one I believe the Holy Spirit wrote in me and it tells more than facts, it tells truth in so much love. I love my mom more than I can even begin to put into words - she has been an anchor in my life for all of these nearly 68 years. So watching her fade into this fog has been agonizing on many, many levels. But she is THERE still and some part of her always will be. And all of who she is, her story, her present, her future --- all of it is held safely and lovingly by the Shepherd she has followed since she was a teenager. Thanks be to God.

I invite you to read more at Rachel's place today. Thanks so much.

P.S. I was wrong! This is not the last essay in the series. It will continue until year's end. Such a wonderful list of valorous women!!

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.

Our Bending-Low Jesus

"Our Bending-Low Jesus"

I used this phrase at a friend's blog today

and somehow it bloomed up in my mind

and came out my mouth 

during my evening walk tonight.

I so easily forget how powerful our story is,

how remarkable.

Maybe it's the reflection I've been doing 

on the Cosmic Christ

the past few months,

 courtesy of my Catholic brothers and sisters.

Maybe it's the contrast of that image - 

the one I can hardly grasp,

the one that speaks of grandeur,

and Beyond-my-ken,

and Ground-of-Being hugeness -

the contrast of all that

with the picture we have of Jesus

in the pages of the gospel.

Jesus, who bows down in the dirt

and writes grace with his fingertips.

Jesus, who spits on that dirt

and packs it into blind eyes.

Jesus, who gets hungry,

and impatient with the ravages of sin,

and wonders if his friends will ever get it.

Jesus.

Who bends low for us.

My mother is with us for a few days.

And as I walk in the evenings,

I beg forgiveness for the many ways

I miss the mark when I am with her.

Impatience simmers,

sharpness surfaces,

tension rises until the air is heavy with it,

stagnant and fetid.

I am exhausted in ways I can't even describe - 

weary with worry, I suppose. 

I give her the thrice-a-day medicines,

I make sure she eats and drinks,

I do her small amount of laundry.

Yet so often,

my spirit is twisted,

almost angry about what's happening to her.

And I do not want to be angry.

She likes to walk out to our side yard,

to the spot where 

we buried my brother's ashes two years ago.

I watch from a polite distance,

as the grass is bumpy and she is unsteady.

She bends low, holding her knees,

speaking with words I cannot hear,

touching the metal angel I have placed there,

to mark the spot.

That simple movement is one of the

most achingly sad things I have ever watched.

Mothers should not have to bury their children.

Yet so many do.

So many do.

Mine did. 

Really, Lord?

So much loss!

Her husband, 

her grandson-in-law,

her vision,

her son,

and now . . . 

her mind, too?

How long, O Lord?

How long?

How much, O Lord?

How much? 

There are no answers to these cries,

none that suffice.

Except for this one:

Our bending-low Jesus.

And so I spread all the ugliness out there on the driveway

as I walk in circles in the deepening dusk.

I rue the words just behind my teeth,

the ones that don't come out,

but want to.

I offer them up, 

I beg for grace and then,

I see him.

Bending down in the dirt, 

he writes my name,

with the words 

forgiven,

forgotten.

And I am bent low.

Pictures:

1. The Risen Christ, on the wall of the chapel 

at the Monastery of the Risen Christ,

San Luis Obispo, CA

2. The angel which marks my brother's burial site.

3. A station of the cross in the chapel at the Mission Renewal Center,

Santa Barbara CA

Offering this at Michelle's place, Jen's Sisterhood and Ann's gratitude link-up. 

I may not count like she does, but I am deeply grateful nonetheless.

That Delicate Balance, Part One

The wind was gentle out on the patio,

where we waited for our lunch trays.

So she set the small container of salsa verde

on top of the napkin to keep it from blowing away.

Lunch arrived, she picked up the napkin

and the salsa went tumbling,

as if in slow motion,

spilling its brilliant green thickness 

over the concrete,

splashing up into the pocket of my purse,

dousing my cell phone with cilantro scented slime.

She couldn't see it.

She can't see very much at all.

And she didn't remember that she'd put it there.

She doesn't remember very much, either.

I made three or four trips back inside 

to the napkin dispenser, sopping up the mess,

silent, praying for grace.

"Is this what life is now?"

I prayed inside my tumbled spirit,

as green and splattered as the sauce before me.

Is this what it comes down to?

Cleaning up one mess after another,

praying for patience,

grace,

kindness.

And those good things feeling just out of reach,

beyond my grasp, 

beyond me.

Because, of course, they are.

My shadow self wrestles hard within me,

struggling to teach me

how to live more fully into these moments.

And what I'm learning as I wrestle is this:

the shadow is part of me,

a friend, not an enemy.

A place for learning and stretching,

for telling the truth

and not liking it very much.

For acknowledging that this is hard.

This is really hard.

It's hard for her.

It's hard for me.

It is hard.

And I am impatient.

I do wish that she didn't have to go through this,

and that I didn't have to go through it, either.

I do not think completely selfless thoughts, you see.

I wish sometimes it were over.

Yes, I even wish that.

But here is the Truth that is slowly

sinking in and healing the holes in me.

Here is the wonder of redemption:

God loves all of who I am,

ugly thoughts, self-pity, impatience,

frustration - all of it.

God loves me before those parts are redeemed,

while they are in process,

and through the refining fire of life circumstances

that are difficult, painful and not very pretty. 

That's a hard concept for me to grasp,

one that I've pushed back against

time and time again.

Pushing back in my usual way -

with lots of private name-calling,

condemnation,

guilt.

But today, as I look back at the last three days

with my mom - three days filled with reminders

of how much is lost, how frail she is, 

how brave and terrified she is - 

when I look back,

I see mercy in the moments.

I see glimpses of glory.

I see fleeting images of the fullness, the richness of life -

the wonder and the sweetness

and

the sorrow and the harshness.

It's all a part of the mix, you see,

and somehow, we're asked to live in the balance,

to stay in the center,

to focus on the One who holds it all.

The One who weeps with us when we weep,

who laughs with us when we rejoice,

who reminds us by the very life

He lived among us

that all of it is grace.

All of it.

And so,

the mess is cleared.

The fish tacos are delicious.

And my mom smiles at me across the table.

She is beautiful.

And so am I.

By the grace of God,

because of Jesus,

by the winsome will of the Holy Spirit -

so am I.

"You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly... God demonstrates his own love for us in this: 

While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." 

Romans 5:6 & 8, TNIV

 Joining with several friends tonight after a rough and tumble, mixed emotion kind of journey the last few days. I will write Part 2 and post it with the same friends a bit later, 

if their links are still open:

Michelle at Graceful

Jennifer F. and the Sisterhood and Finding Heaven

Jennifer Lee and the GodBumps folks at Getting Down with Jesus

Emily at Imperfect Prose