Anam Cara

New Dawn, New Day...

I am a big fan of hello. Goodbye is not my favorite. But sometimes goodbye is simply "I'll see you in a bit....further on."

Anam Cara is moving. It has been a rather melancholy thing, to be perfectly honest. But I believe it is a step in the right direction. I am excited about some of the possibilities the new format opens up with regard to archive accessibility and search function. I am also hopeful that it will help new readers meander by. Perhaps some of them will wish to linger.

To those of you who are already friends, please come and play. I hope you will like the new digs. While it is true that sometimes the writing is for me....because I need to work out what is in my head...it does not mean nearly so much without you. Let me know what you think. It is still a work in progress.

This site will remain online for a while to give the occasional visitors a chance to find me. I will not be adding new content.

It's a new dawn. It's a new day. I'll be looking for you.

Find me at http://sheliamullican.com

Amity,

s

A Dream Strayed Into Daylight

Sparkling water trips over stones

Whispering breeze rustles leaves

Heart whisper

Soul breath

Transparent eyes

A dream strayed into daylight

 

Delicate petals

Sweet scent

A Rose

Exquisite intoxication

Lavender delirium

Columbine spell

A dream strayed into daylight

 

Extravagant brilliance of sunset

Spectacular resplendence of fall

Delicious agony

Orgasm of pain

A dream strayed into daylight

 

Breathless silence

Blanket of snow

Icy flakes on bare skin

Violent exhilaration

Thunderstorm, rain

A dream strayed into daylight

 

Raspberries

Fragrant exotic delight

Cabernet

Mysterious and warm

Chocolate

Decadent, bitter and dark

A dream strayed into daylight

 

Elegant threshold

Ecstatic response

Transcendence

Abandon

Bliss

Pieces of Heaven

Diverted to Earth

A dream strayed into daylight

~SM~

 

*I owe a great debt to C.S. Lewis for the title line.  While reading Til We Have Faces, the phrase "a dream strayed into daylight" lodged itself in my mind.  It actually has a negative connotation in the book.  But for me, it was magic. It made me think of all those experiences, all those moments when, perhaps only for the space of a breath, I have touched the otherworldly.  Lewis called it "joy".  This poem has rolled round in my head, in bits and pieces, ever since.  I have been blessed with a great many transcendent moments.  The words and phrases above commemorate some of them.

**Originally published 19 May 2008. One of my earliest experiments with poetry, an art form that continues to seduce me.

Sacred Threshold...

sacred the power, being, or realm understood by religious persons to be at the core of existence and to have a transformative effect on their lives and destinies. 

threshold any place or point of entering or beginning...

I probably should not write this at all.  I know I will not say it well.  For every breath I help you breathe with me, there will be a thousand others unbreathed.  And yet, words brought me here.  I wonder how many of those who shared their words with me thought they did not say it well?  For every fragrance, every whisper of wonder, of holiness, on a page or across a table...how many others were left locked up in their hearts?  So I write.  I treat of that which defies explanation.  I invite you to peer with me inside a mystery...

Sometimes life takes the most unexpected turns.  A couple of years ago I came to a place of crisis with God.  I felt I had pursued Him all my life, and that He had eluded me.  And I was angry.  Perhaps I had approached Him badly, in error, but it was not for lack of trying.  Funny how sometimes the very road we try to take to God is the one that perpetually leads us away from Him.  I felt compelled to prove myself to God, as though I must earn His love.  I would have told you I did not believe this was true.  But I lived my life every day as though it were.

I came to a place of devastation when it became clear to me that I was incapable of being good enough...when I could truly see the blackness inside me.  I was in deep despair.  I felt that if I were to surrender my endless, futile attempts to find worth in myself that I would simply cease to exist.  It felt like death!
 

      It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

"When we are nothing, we are in a fine position to receive everything from God." ~Richard Rohr  God began to woo me.  I know He has done it all my life, but much of the time I was too busy doing things 'for Him' to take notice.  He met me on runs and in early, quiet hours when everyone was still asleep.  He met me in novels, in poetry, and in His Word.  I saw Him in His creation and in great works of art.  He spoke His healing words to me through friends.  You know who you are.  There will never be enough words to say to you how important you have been to me.  I love you more than I can say.

Then came the most unexpected gift of all.  Up until about three years ago, I had never known anyone personally who was Orthodox.  My only encounter with Orthodoxy was purely historical.  But all of a sudden, I was ambushed.  Blessed Ambush!  A friend, then several aquaintances, then a circle of beautiful, wise women, and finally a family.  Books, podcasts, music...I couldn't get enough.  And worship!  That was the most compelling of all.  Orthodox believe that in the Divine Liturgy we literally enter the Kingdom of God.  I believe it.  I believed it the very first time.  There is a blessed otherness...such a profound sense of holiness.  Sometimes I can hardly breathe for the weight of it. 

Today, on Saint Nicholas Day, I crossed a threshold.  Today I became part of the Orthodox Church.  Mike and I have walked most of this last year with the congregation at St. Ignatius.  We have fasted together, celebrated together, struggled and learned together, and entered the Presence together.  My soul has been nourished in ways I could never have imagined.  And I am learning to live in God...to revel in His Presence...to come to Him honestly with all the best AND worst things about me, and to experience His joy in me.

God knew my heart so much better than I did.  He knew how to help me find Him.  My friend, Monte, tells me that when a lifeguard goes to help someone in distress, he will not engage the swimmer until he stops struggling, otherwise the distressed swimmer can drown them both.  But once the swimmer has exhausted himself, then he can be saved.  Once I was thoroughly exhausted, God helped me find the means whereby I could finally know Him. 

Yesterday, I made my first confession in preparation for today.  I began with a written prayer, then shared those things with the priest that weighed most heavily on my heart and those that present persistent challenge.  It was a solemn and weighty experience.  He spoke words to me that Christ would have spoken had he been there.  After this, I knelt and Father Stephen placed his stole over my head.  He told me that just as the stole covered my head, Christ's blood had covered my sins.  Hot tears flowed down my face as his words planted themselves deeply within me and forgiveness became a palpable reality.
 

This morning, after affirming that we accept and submit to the essential tenets of the Orthodox faith, we were anointed with Holy Chrism (oil).  As Father Stephen made crosses with the oil on our foreheads, eyes, nose, ears, chest, hands and feet, he said "the seal of the Holy Spirit" and the whole congregation cried out "SEAL!!"  I felt like my chest was a great ball of fire.  I could not stop the tears.  That God would be so kind to bring me to this place where I could breathe Him and wear Him when I had been so ready to walk away from Him is too much for me.  Receiving the Body and Blood for the first time with my dear sisters and brothers was a completely transcendent experience.  Heart pounding, knees trembling, filled with wonder.  May it ever be so.

At lunch today my dear friend, Gail, said to my fellow celebrants, Giorgio and Mike, and to me that today we only lifted the lid to the treasure box.  She assured us that there are enough treasures inside to last us a lifetime.  I believe her.

"You do not resolve the God question in your head...it is resolved in you when you agree to bear the mystery of God." ~Rohr

Photographs in the post courtesy of our friend Joel Smith.  At the top of the post, Mike and I with Father Stephen.  Above, with Mike and Gail Hyatt, dear friends who have been such an important part of our journey and today stood with us as our sponsors/godparents.  Also, Keith Coley and Giorgio Kemp.  Beautiful irony: Giorgio was in my third grade choir.  His mother Rhonda was my homeschooling mentor.  We have danced in and out of one another's lives for years.  What a blessed gift to be Chrismated on the same day.  Many years, dear friend!

*Originally published 6 December 2009.

Silence

Make me Silent, that I may eloquently converse with Thee.

I wandered through forests of incessant searchings, and arrived at the mystery door of Thy presence. On the doors of silence I knocked loudly with my persistent blows of faith, and the doors of space opened. There, on the altar of glorious visions, I beheld Thee, resting.

I stood, with restless eyes, waiting for Thee to speak. I heard not Thy creation-making voice. At last the spell of stillness stole upon me, and in whispers taught me the language of angels. With the lisping voice of new-born freedom, I tried to speak, and the lights of Thy temple assumed sudden brilliancy and wrote letters of light.

In my little chamber of quietness, I am always resting: I never speak but with the voice of my silence. Through my silence, eloquently converse with me.

-Paramhansa Yogananda

Photo by Ranjit Swanson

*Originally published 20 December 2007.

 

Because of Jake....

Fifteen years ago today I gave birth to my first son...and so began a wonderful
romance.  My life has been decidedly different because Jake has been a part
of it. If you will indulge me...

Having Jake in my life has meant...

...a thousand million hugs.  Jake is one of the most affectionate people I know. 
He has brought tremendous joy to so many by his uninhibited displays of
affection.  I doubt he will ever know how very significant that has been.

...ART.  When Jake was a very little boy, I knew something was different about
him.  Usually when little children color, they fill a page with large gestures of
color using the whole arm.  Jake always made little Cezanne-like squares of
color.  By the time he was three, his Sunday School teachers (and sometimes
total strangers) were commenting on his drawings.  They were incredible. 
Dragons and superheroes were his preferred subjects, rendered in astonishing
detail.  One year, when he was 8 or 9 years old, he forgot to pack his drawing
supplies for a vacation.  On the drive home, he was shaking like an addict as he
said to me, "Mommy, I can't wait to get home so I can draw."  Some of my favorite
memories of Jake are from visits to art museums.  I could hardly look at the pieces
for looking at him.  He becomes completely lost in the art.  He interacts with the
works as though they are alive.  For him, I suppose, they are.  These days, his art
takes different forms (body art, drawings of friends, hair, clothing...), but it
remains an essential part of who he is.  As he looks toward the future, art is always
part of the consideration.   I can hardly wait to see what God intends to do with him.

...music.  Children's choir, recordings (both audio and video), piano, saxophone... 
Now he is writing his own songs.  When he was little, Kelsey and I (who have a
disease that causes us to remember every song we ever hear word for word)
laughed at him because he had inherited his dad's tendency to make up words in
songs and not even realize they were made up.  No more.  He is devoted to his
favorite artists and can reproduce with complete accuracy.  He has a wonderful
ear for harmony.  It is great fun to sing in the car with him. 

...books.  Homeschooling afforded us a wonderful luxury of time to read.  Jake,
Kelsey and I would curl up on the couch, or on the front porch, and spend a whole
morning (or afternoon) in a book. We have enjoyed magnificent voyages through
time and space.   I would reach the end of a chapter, and they would unanimously
cry "just one more chapter!"  Jake was an early reader, and was knocking back
500 page Redwall books by the time he was in fourth grade.  Video games and
activities with friends have taken some of the time that used to belong to reading,
but he spent the four hour drive home last night lost in Brisingr, the third book in
the Inheritance series by Christopher Paolini.

...encouragement.  Jake sees things.  When he eats a lovely meal, he realizes
someone has devoted a great deal of creativity and effort to its creation.  He will
find that person and make sure they know how much he appreciates it.  A new
haircut, a well sung song, a good story, a kind deed...he misses nothing.  And,
he is compelled to speak it...words of blessing...words of value...words of life. 
I have been the lucky recipient of many of those kind words. 

...curiosity.  Jake loves to try new things.  He has always enjoyed creative and
interesting food.  It is a joy to eat with him and to cook for him.  And now, I get
to cook with him which may very well be my favorite.  Traveling with Jake is a
delight.  He embraces each part of the experience.  From navigating Paris
Metro maps, to climbing the rocks in the harbor at Vernazza, to descending
inside the Grand Canyon, to screaming his lungs out on the Aerosmith Rock
n Roller Coaster, life is one adventure after another.  We are already dreaming
of where we want to go next...

...ideas.  I have tried to imagine what it would be like to be inside Jake's head. 
Cacophony.  Sometimes, he tells me about inventions or dreams that are
circulating through his head.  He can hardly get the words out fast enough. 
And, the plans are fully articulated and developed to a high degree of
sophistication.  I confess that sometimes I am using all my powers of
concentration to follow him.  And, he has totally outstripped my knowledge of
quantum physics.  He is brilliant!  And that's the truth. 

...love.  Sometimes...rarely...Jake gets frustrated and is unkind.  He has
made decisions that he regrets.  But, I have never known anyone of whom
I could say that his intentions are always good.  I can say that about Jake. 
I believe that every day he wants the best for those he loves.  I have seen
him forgive.  I have seen him be generous.  I have seen him take the first
step when healing is needed.  Jake loves extravagantly.  It is impossible to
know him and not know love.  Ask his friends.  They will tell you it's true.

So thanks Jake.  Thanks to the wiggly little bundle of blue eyes and blonde
hair that burst into my life on the day before Thanksgiving fifteen years ago. 
Thanks to the little boy who played in the creek, and explored every inch of
our farm, and took such good care of our dogs.  Thanks for books, and art,
and music, and hugs.  Thanks for telling me about inventions I don't even
understand.  Thanks for choosing to believe the best about everyone and for
loving generously.  Thanks for cooking and traveling and riding bikes with me. 
Thanks for making me smile.  Thank you.  Thank YOU.  THANK YOU for being
my son. 

Happy Birthday.

 

I love you!  

 

Today.

 

Every Day.

 

Always.

 

Mom.

 

*Originally published 24 November 2008

On Christ Without the Church...

A number of years ago, Anne Rice--famous for her Vampire Chronicles series before vampires were all the rage--made the startling announcement that she had returned to the Catholic church, exchanging atheism for a life of faith.  Recently, she again surprised readers and fans, as well as the faith community, with this post to her Facebook fan page:

For those who care, and I understand if you don't: Today I quit being a Christian. I'm out. I remain committed to Christ as always but not to being 'Christian' or to being part of Christianity. It's simply impossible for me to 'belong' to this quarrelsome, hostile, disputatious, and deservedly infamous group. For ten years, I've tried. I've failed. I'm an outsider. My conscience will allow nothing else.

She makes a number of compelling arguments in defense of her decision in a recent interview with Christianity Today.  Though I respect her integrity in following her convictions, and though I identify with a great many of her frustrations, I find I cannot embrace her solution.

There was a time when I thought I could...when I very nearly did.  Several close friends and family members had been trampled upon by arrogant, thoughtless church leaders leaving them wounded and weary.  I had personally known deep disappointment in a community into which I had poured myself for years.  I began to see the Church as an impediment; something standing between Christ and me.

It has been a painful lesson, but I have come to understand that God uses "quarrelsome, hostile, disputatious" people in our lives for our salvation, just as He uses us for theirs.  They help that which is hidden in us bubble to the surface.  It's not always pretty.  But, the Church provides a "safe" place for us to bump up against one another.  "Like iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another." (Prov. 27:17)

I also find myself challenged, inspired, and nourished by the lovely folks in my local parish.  We feed one another.  We care for those who are hurting.  We rally around those in crisis.  We are family.

If I reject Christianity, with it's contentious, judgemental, angry, abusive members, I also reject the thousands of believers who rush into disaster situations serving, feeding, clothing, building houses.  I reject organizations like Compassion International and World Vision who sustain and empower, one child, one family at a time.  I reject teenagers who work extra jobs so they can go love on kids in Africa.  I reject families who labor tirelessly to help orphans find their forever homes.

I confess, it is considerably more palatable to relate to a Saviour who never snaps at you, who doesn't wag on over dinner, who is not self righteous or needy.  But Christ made it rather clear that we have a responsibility to one another.  And, in his last recorded prayer, that tender lament in John 17, His fervent desire is that we be one.  It is impossible to become one with another while living in isolation.

So I'm in.   For the long haul. Do I wish we more accurately reflected Christ in EVERY action? Most assuredly!  But I hope I will always be humble enough to learn from those around me.  They have so much to teach me.

I close with words of another literary figure who had his own issues with the church.  An observation from C.S. Lewis:

If there is anything in the teaching of the New Testament which is in the nature of a command, it is that you are obliged to take the Sacrament, and you can’t do it without going to Church. I disliked very much their hymns, which I considered to be fifth-rate poems set to sixth-rate music. But as I went on I saw the great merit of it. I came up against different people of quite different outlooks and different education, and then gradually my conceit just began peeling off.

I realized that the hymns (which were just sixth-rate music) were, nevertheless, being sung with devotion and benefit by an old saint in elastic-side boots in the opposite pew, and then you realize that you aren’t fit to clean those boots. It gets you out of your solitary conceit.

*All bolds in the post are mine, used for emphasis, including those in both quotes.

**Originally published 23 August 2010.

Once There Was a Boy Who Loved a Girl.....

Once there was a boy who loved a girl.  And she loved him.  They had hardly anything, but they pooled what they had and began a life together...a voyage of discovery...an adventure.  In the beginning, there was a succession of apartments and tiny little houses, until they found THE house...the one where they would raise all their children...the one they would add to, and renovate and rearrange for 42 years...the one that would host parties, and gatherings, and commemorations, and mournings...life. 

The boy worked very hard.  For a long time he worked two jobs, and he farmed, and he volunteered his time at church.  The girl worked hard, too.  For a while, she worked outside the home..until baby number two was born.  Then she chose to give all she was to her family.  She sewed, gardened, and canned.  She kissed boo boos and read stories and wrapped warm towels around the children's necks when they were sick and made them feel safe and warm.

The girl and the boy taught their children many things.  They taught them that God was the center around which the rest of life orbited.  They taught them to work hard.  And, they taught them to sing.  My, how they loved to sing!  They sang at church, at home around the piano, in the car, in the cornfield.  They sang everywhere.  And they laughed.  They laughed a lot.  They traveled many places and saw many things.  The boy and the girl were curious and they taught their children to be curious too.  It was a wonderful gift. 

The girl was so curious that when her children were all in school, she decided to go to college.  She had not had the opportunity to do this when she was younger.  It was hard for her family at first because they were spoiled.  They liked being her everything.  But, the girl was very brave and she persevered and her family was very proud of her.

One day the children the boy and girl had loved and taught grew up and married and left their home.  Their family was growing and getting smaller all at the same time.  It wasn't long until those children had some children of their own.  This was so much fun for the boy and the girl.  They loved playing with their grandchildren and watching them grow.  The grandchildren learned about the things that made Mamaw and Papaw's house special:  Big breakfasts of gravy and biscuits (or chocolate gravy and biscuits), going to see the cows, riding the four wheeler or the John Deere or the Jeep, Mamaw's home-made grape jelly, Papaw's drink (inside joke), jumping off the diving board, playing with cousins.......  The boy and the girl and their children and their grandchildren laughed together and cried together.  They prayed together and partied together.  They worked together and vacationed together.  And they loved....

The boy and the girl liked this new stage of their lives.  They retired from their jobs, but not from life.  He read the paper and she read books.  She grew flowers in the summer and made quilts in the winter and he built things, and fixed things, and made hay, and took care of his cattle. They made new friends.  They took care of their parents.  They enjoyed their children and grandchildren.  They traveled to many places: Hawaii, Alaska, the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, New England, and on and on.   Theirs was a life rich in memory.  And the boy still loved the girl, and the girl still loved the boy.  It was a deep, rich love that had had many years to ripen and season.  It was a love that had spilled over on others.  And still they love....

On Sunday, my parents celebrated their forty-fifth wedding anniversary.  It is an astounding landmark.  I looked around me at the family that has grown up around them and I wondered if they had any idea, all those years ago, what would become of them.  And I wondered what would have happened....if a boy...had never loved a girl...

My family:
Foreground: Monty.
First row: Ethan, Samuel, Tammy (holding Tucker), Joshua, Mike and Anna.
Back row:  Crystal, Andrew, Marvin, Candy, Tabitha, Mom, Jake and Dad.
*I am taking the photo and Kelsey was not with us.

*Originally published 16 July 2008

Old Friends...

I spent a delightful afternoon with some old friends.  I helped my books find their home in the new house.  There are shelves downstairs, shelves in the hall, shelves in the guest room.... As I have educated our children at home, and as I am thoroughly in love with books, we have acquired quite an extensive library... despite the fact that the librarians at Brentwood and Franklin know me by name.  Several years ago, I was given this guideline for purchasing books:  "If you think you will want to read it to your grandchildren, you should buy it."  Turns out, my grandchildren and I have our work cut out for us.

Jen and I talked this morning about book-love, and about how there is a romance in just holding the books and finding their place.  As I lovingly placed each on the shelf, I thought about the long hours of delight each has offered my children and me.  I made a mental note of the ones Joshua and I have yet to read, and determined that he will not leave our home without having encountered certain favorites.  As I handled these books that have given so much to me, I wanted desperately for you to know them. 

Today, favorite children's authors.  Finding a favorite author is like finding a friend.  You know you can trust her.  You come to know how she views the world.  You know you want to spend more time with her.   Here are a few authors about whom I can say, "pick up anything with this name on it and read.  You will be glad you did."

Beatrix Potter:  I frequently give a collection of Beatrix Potter as a baby gift to those I truly love.  I can not describe to you the hours of joy Jemima Puddleduck, Peter Rabbit, Squirrel Nutkin and their friends have given us.  Potter had a beautiful command of the English language, and uncanny insight into human nature.  Whether you are 2 or 42 these stories are for you.

A.A. Milne:  My other favorite baby gift is the collected stories and poems of Winnie the Pooh.  If you read Milne in his original voice (not the Disney adaptations) you will find a man of insight and great good humor.  I gave the book to my cousin and her husband.  She told me they began reading the stories to one another before their kids were old enough to appreciate them because they enjoyed the humor so much.  Read one story.  That is all it will take.  You will want them all.

Marguerite de Angeli:  The Door in the Wall is one of the very best books I have read about life in the Middle Ages.  This story demonstrates that when your life seems to be falling apart, perhaps God is simply setting in motion the very events that will make you what you were always intended to be.  Beautiful and challenging.  Winner of the Newberry medal.  de Angeli also spent several years living with the Amish and writing stories based on her experience with them. Yonie Wondernose and Henner's Lydia have been favorites.

Jean Craighead George writes about nature in a most compelling and intriguing manner.  We started with My Side of the Mountain (thanks mom) about a boy who runs off into the Adirondacks and lives on his own for a whole year.  We read about his discoveries, inventions, and adventures.  We read that whole trilogy.  Then, we read the Julie of the Wolves trilogy.  Julie's life in Alaska fascinated us.  I can't imagine a more engaging science curriculum.  George was one of those names we began to take from the library regardless of the title.  We read about owls in the shower and birds in Colorado who had to build their nests twice.  There is a strong conservation message and a bit of evolution.   I found those to be good discussion points.

Gene Stratton Porter was also a woman who was fascinated with God's world.  You can hear it in her Newberry award winning Girl of the Limberlost about a girl growing up in the swamps with no idea of who she is until she developes a romance with moths and butterflies.  It changes the way she sees everything, including herself.  The story is far more complex than that sentence makes it sound.  Complex and lovely.  Keeper of the Bees is probably my personal favorite of her stories, though we have read several.  They may come across as formulaic, but I find them heartwarming.  And her knowledge of all things natural is quite expansive.  Again, a pretty painless and engaging introduction to God's world.

Ingri and Edgar Parin D'Aulaire were a husband-wife team that wrote and illustrated remarkable children's books.  They are winners of the Caldecott medal for illustration.  Their specialty was biographies...biographies of Lincoln, Washington, Franklin, Columbus, Pocohontas and others.  But my personal favorite, my VERY favorite is their collection of Greek myths.  I have my World History students read Edith Hamilton's Greek Myths...it is the standard text.  But, I am telling you, the stories are just as vivid and well told here, and much more accessible and beautifully illustrated.

Elizabeth George Spear tells stories of historical fiction that you will not be able to put down.  They were of the guaranteed "Mommy, PLEASE, one more chapter, PLEASE!" variety.  I don't think I will ever get over The Bronze Bow, and I have now read it three times.  Getting to encounter Jesus, live and in the flesh, from the point of view of a skeptic, is priceless.  And her sympathetic insights into Pharisaism are invaluable.  The Sign of the Beaver and The Witch of Blackbird Pond are also absolutely required reading (Both are on my American History reading list.).  Sign of the Beaver for honor and survival, Witch of Blackbird Pond for insight into Puritanism and grace.

Genevieve Foster was a mother, then a grandmother, who wanted her children and grandchildren to know the history of the world.  She believed they would understand it best if told in the form of a story.  So she told them stories.  Fortunately for all of us, she decided to write these stories down in the form of several "slices" of history built around the lives of significant individuals.  These include Augustus Caesar, Christopher Columbus, and George Washington, among others.  I love how she seemlessly knits together characters from all over the world who happened to be living on the earth at the same time.  Hers are cohesive, interesting, enlightening works.

 

Robert McCloskey:  Make Way for Ducklings and Blueberries for Sal constitute a right of passage so far as I'm concerned.  Nothing quite beats a reading of Blueberries for Sal just before heading over to Clovercroft to pick our own blueberries.  Ahhhh, childhood.  If you were to ask Jake to give his top five favorite books in our whole house I can guarantee that Homer Price would make the list.  He and I have read it twice just the two of us.  From the overactive donut machine to foiling bank robberies with a pet skunk, Homer has delightful, unusual adventures.

Meindert Dejong:  The Wheel on the School was our first of Mr. Dejong's books.  We fell in love with the students, with Holland, and with the storks.  Then we read about Tien Pao floating away in his family's sampan on a rain-swollen river in Japanese occupied China.  After a large dose of adventure and terror, he finds himself on an American airbase in The House of Sixty Fathers.  We've also read Shadrach, Along Came a Dog, ....

  Finally, two series that we enjoyed reading in their entirety: Probably three years ago, Kelsey and Jake and I read C.S. Lewis'  Chronicles of Narnia back to back over a two month period.  We read them chronologically according to Narnia time (meaning we started with the Magician's Nephew).  It was a singular experience.  By the time I got to the Last Battle, I was a wreck.  As so very many of the characters whose stories were still fresh and vivid to us reappeared in the final book, I lost it.  I cried through most of the last half of the book.  Fortunately, my children are accustomed to that.  No problem.  The other series that we read in it's entirety was Laura Ingalls WIlder's "Little House" series.  What an amazing snapshot of life in the late ninteenth/early twentieth century in the western U.S.!  We read about living in cabins and dugouts, about maple sugaring and swarms of grasshoppers, about tragedy and triumph, about loss and love.  We read about a family who was FOR one another, ALL the time, no matter what.  That is a beautiful story.

*Originally published 8 June 2008. Particularly poignant now that one of the aforementioned grandchildren is on the way. :)

The Martyrdom of Marriage....

 

Marriage is hell.

Sometimes.

I did not sign up for that.

I signed up for a husband who would understand me all the time.  He would anticipate needs without me speaking them so that I would never have to humble myself and ask for help.  He would be romantic and creative, regardless of the pressures of providing for a family, or responsibilities he might have to others.  But, more than anything, he would fill all the empty places in me.  He would make me feel beautiful, smart, and important.  Any unanswered questions I had...about me...about whether I mattered...he would answer.

My husband has failed me in this.

I imagine he had a list of expectations too.  And I can assure you, whatever was on that list, I have failed him.  More than he has failed me.

For a long time we limped along in our failings, too polite to say to the other how disappointed we were.  Too afraid to talk about the things that mattered.  Until all the resentment finally hit critical mass and exploded like a compromised container of toxic waste.  And the husband I had lived with peaceably, if not always passionately, for years, became an object of loathing to me.  I could no longer remember any of the things I loved about him.

And I made his life hell.  I wanted to hurt him as much as I felt he had hurt me.  I was so angry at him for not being who I needed him to be.  Who I thought I needed him to be.

"The collapse of the family today, the rate of divorce--all this is due to the non-acceptance by man of marriage as martyria, and this means patience, endurance, travelling together along a difficult, yet ultimately glorious path."

~Alexander Schmemann

For four years we have fought and scratched and clawed our way back to one another.  Our kind and able couselor taught us to be honest.  Generous friends loved us viciously and refused to let us give up--and I really wanted to give up.  And we learned to cling to God like a man lost in the desert clings to his last few drops of water.

Healing has come.  Is still coming.  And we have learned so much.  But perhaps the most important thing we have learned is to give one another permission to be who we are.  And to allow the other to fail us.  In those empty places where I miss him and he misses me, God is.  And we learn a little more about surrender.  And about the kind of love that gives without requiring response.  The love of a martyr.

martyr: a person who is put to death or endures great suffering on behalf of any belief, principle, or cause

Turns out, each of us was what the other needed all along.  And we are finding a rich, seasoned love that is worth every torturous step it took to get here.  If you find yourself in the hell season at present, PLEASE, don't give up!!!  Ask for help.  Gather a band of brothers and sisters around you.  And ask God to meet you in the empty, broken places...and to teach you to love like He loves.

"...marriage, as life itself, is above all a journey, and its goal, as that of life itself, is the Kingdom of God...Then what will remain is true love, the one that overcomes death and gives us a taste of the Kingdom...It is this love that transforms through forgiveness, and so in the marriage, in this martyrdom,...we grow together as to constitute in the end the very image of that Divine Love between God and man."

~Alexander Schmemann

 

*For the record, our marriage is not ALL martyrdom. :)   And I HAVE come to remember the things I love about my husband.  You can find a few of them HERE. 

**Originally published 14 September 2010

That Which Does Not Kill You...

"Run when you can, walk when you have to, crawl if you must; just never give up."  Dean Karnazes

A couple of months ago a friend loaned me a book he thought I would want to read.  It has been sitting on my shelf of candidates until today.  I picked it up this morning thinking that endurance seemed like an appropriate theme for today.  I began reading around lunchtime and finished it this afternoon.  It is a quick and compelling read...difficult to put down.  Dean Karnazes has run the Western States 100 Miles Endurance Run, has won the Badwater Ultra marathon in Death Valley, California (135 miles in 120 degrees Fahrenheit temperatures), and was the first man to run a marathon to the South Pole (without snowshoes).  He even ran a 199 mile relay run BY HIMSELF...3 times...to raise money for sick children.  Karnazes understands sacrifice...endurance...passion. 

This is not a book for runners only...not even for athletes only.  It is a book for anyone who wants to live life...to really live it...fully...fully alive.  Anyone who has known the experience of pushing his or her body beyond that which was previously perceived to be possible understands that much of the battle is mental...and emotional.  Lessons learned on the race course translate to life in general.  I have included a few favorite quotes....just a sampling...pieces and parts.  Thanks, Kyle, for a great read.

Lessons from two favorite coaches:

"If it comes easy, if it doesn't require extraordinary effort, you're not pushing hard enough: It's supposed to hurt like hell."

"Don't run with your legs.  Run with your heart."

"That which does not kill you makes you stronger."  Friedrich Nietzsche

"Pain is the body's way of ridding itself of weakness."  Native American Volunteer on Western States Endurance Run

Karnazes on Dreams:

"Most dreams die a slow death.  They're conceived in a moment of passion, with the prospect of endless possibility, but often languish and are not pursued with the same heartfelt intensity as when first born.  Slowly, subtly, a dream becomes elusive and ephemeral.  People who've let their own dreams die become pessimists and cynics... 'It can't be done,' they'll say, when you describe your dream, 'It'll never happen.'"

Realization during final mile of his first 100 mile race:

"It struck me in the space of a few steps that my past as I knew it had suddenly ceased to exist.  Nothing would ever be the same to me from this point on.  I'd been transformed by this journey, in ways I had yet to understand.  This person who was staggering and crawling and persisting at mile 99 was a different being than the guy who had started the race just yesterday morning.  I was more capable than I imagined, better than I ever thought I could be.  This realization was like stepping into another dimension.  Covering 100 miles on foot was more than a lesson in survival, it was an education on the grace of living."

"When you're going through hell, keep going."  Winston Churchill

"Success seems to be largely a matter of hanging on after others have let go."  William Feather

"You only live once, but if you work it right, once is enough."  Joe Louis

*Originally posted 27 August 2007.

God is Good

My daughter is a remarkable young woman.  She is creative, funny, smart, courageous, and generous.  I have watched God ornament her with ever-increasing wisdom and radiance.  She has taught me a great deal.  This morning she posted a note on Facebook that so moved me, I requested her permission to share it here.  She graciously consented. 

God is Good

This is becoming more and more evident every day. I have been seeing Him work in me so much over this past year. I've had prayers answered, needs met, problems acknowledged, and learned SO much. I just wanted to take a few minutes to let everyone else in on some of the things I've learned...

1 Thessalonians 5:17
Pray without ceasing.
This verse is so simple, and yet so important. It doesn't mean to spend all day every day with your "head bowed, eyes closed", but just talking to Him throughout the day and not just in church or before a meal. When something really awesome happens thank Him, when you remember something a friend is going through take a minute to pray for them, when you catch yourself getting really angry about something ask Him to calm you down, when something bad happens it's okay to be real with Him and tell Him you don't understand, when you're in a tough situation or have a hard decision to make ask Him for wisdom.

2 Corinthians 12:10
For this reason I am happy when I have weaknesses, insults, hard times, sufferings, and all kinds of troubles for Christ. Because when I am weak, then I am truly strong.
I have read verses like this many times, but I had to really learn it from experience. I have had a lot of hard times, some of which I didn't think I would make it through. But I can honestly say that I have seen God work through each one. Every time something bad happens, it is His strength that gets me through it, and it results in my faith being stronger than ever.

John 15:10-12
If you obey my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have obeyed my Father's commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you.
Matthew 22:36-40
"Teacher, which command in the law is the most important?" Jesus answered, "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind.' This is the first and most important command. And the second command is like the first: 'Love your neighbor as you love yourself.' All the law and the writings of the prophets depend on these two commands."
Matthew 5:44
But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.
I don't think this one could possibly be more clear. Following Christ is all about LOVE. It's easy to love people who are nice to us, but we are called to a higher standard. The person who left their dirty dishes for you to wash, the person who hurt you, the person who spread rumors about you, the person who betrayed your trust, the person who made a $40 dollar order and didn't tip, the person who left the toilet seat up, the person who talks too much, the person who everyone else ignores: We need to love these people just as much as we love ourselves, our best friends, and our families.

James 1:27
Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.
I guess this one has always been somewhat easy for me. I'm the type of person that would rather give a gift than receive one. But I would challenge you to try taking a certain percentage of your next paycheck and giving it to someone who needs it. You could go buy meals for homeless guys, give someone a generous tip because they seem to be having a bad day, or give it to an organization dedicated to helping those less fortunate. My guess is that you will feel better about it than if you had spent that money on yourself.

Galatians 6:9
Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.
It's easy to get tired of giving everything 110%, especially if it goes seemingly unnoticed. But this verse is a promise that if we don't give up, it will pay off. So take this verse and write it down somewhere that you will see it everyday, and be reminded to keep trying your best to do what's right even when it's hard.


The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit.

*Originally published 10 February 2009. Wisdom beyond her years. <3

For My Son.....

For my dear, dear son, who has taught me more about WONDER than anybody I know....today...on his birthday.  I love you, Joshua.

I Took His Hand and Followed

My dishes went unwashed today,
I didn't make the bed,
I took his hand and followed
Where his eager footsteps led.

Oh yes, we went adventuring,
My little son and I,
Exploring all the great outdoors
Beneath the summer sky.

We waded in a crystal stream,
We wandered through a wood;
My kitchen wasn't swept today
But life was gay and good.

We found a cool, sun-dappled glade
And now my small son knows
How Mother Bunny hides her nest,
Where jack-in-the-pulpit grows.

We watched a robin feed her young,
We climbed a sunlit hill,
Saw cloud-sheep scamper through the sky,
We plucked a daffodil.

That my house was neglected,
That I didn't brush the stairs,
In twenty years, no one on earth
Will know, or even care.

But that I've helped my little boy
To noble manhood grow,
In twenty years, the whole wide world
May look and see and know.

Mrs. Roy L. Peifer

*Originally published 2 April 2008.

Sometimes I Wish I Weren't Me...

I am not thoughtless enough to complain about my circumstances.  I know my blessings far exceed my merit.  But the person inside...the one nobody sees...  Sometimes, I hate her.

I am sick to death of my lack of originality.  I battle the same demons over and over.  I am plagued repeatedly by insecurities that don't even bother with camouflage.  They tell me the same ridiculous story and I buy it every time.  And just when I think I am gaining ground...that I have learned to recognize the lies and the deceit for what they are...they strut right back into my life and own me.  And I am sent reeling from the surprise of it.  Like some pathetic dog that crawls back to an abusive master, tale wagging, thinking that somehow this time it will be different, only to be kicked in the face.  Again.

I want to be strong.  I don't want it to matter what people think of me.  It matters.  I don't want to need to feel significant.  I need it.  I don't want to have expectations of those closest to me.  I have them.  What is wrong with me?

I am tired.  And sometimes I don't want to fight any more.  I don't want to submit.  I don't want to obey.  I don't want to expose myself to the attacks of an enemy whose cunning is too much for me.  I want to be someone so impotent and inconsequential that he won't care what becomes of me.  I just want to be done.  Would it matter?  If I just withdraw from the game, who would care, really?  What would be different?

I wonder.

What kind of arrogance is it to think anyone wants to know about the crap inside my heart?  My friend, Anne, tells me that when we share our stories, no matter how dark and difficult they may be, we give others permission to speak.  We help them understand they are not alone.

To the best of my ability, I have used the pages of this blog to share beauty.  Words, images, and stories that speak of transcendence and the otherworldly.  But there is a dark side to the world beyond.  And that is where I find myself at present.  It's not the first time.  Not nearly.  But it is the first time I have been sure I had to write about it. 

I'm not sure why.

"Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your unfailing love...
...Restore to me the joy of your salvation       
and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me."

Psalm 51: 1,12

*Oringinally published 19 January 2010. Probably the most difficult post I have ever written. And one of the quickest. It pretty much spilled onto the page. Like vomit. Then I published. Then I panicked. But by then, it was too late. It was an important part of the healing God has been working, and continues to work, in me.

A Walk To Remember......

 

Come.  Walk with me. I have friends I'd like you to know....

 

He doesn't know how old he is.  I don't know what to do with that.  He doesn't
celebrate a birthday.  He lives in a world I do not understand.  His name is Nala. 
He and his wife have four children, teenager to toddler.  They have taken in five
orphans. Five.  He works as a guard...sometimes.  He raises maize.  He eats two
meals of Nsima each day.  That is all.  The house he shares with his wife and
nine children would very nearly fit inside my bedroom.  His roof is leaking.  What
do I do with that?  What is there for me to learn here?  I wonder....

 

I see the baby first.  He sits on a straw mat playing with an old can and a wire. 
He is perfect. His is a cherubic face with a look of fortitude and resolution.  Soon
I am given the opportunity to hold him.  Are babies all alike...everywhere?  He
strokes my hair.  He puts his fingers in my mouth.  Just...like...my...babies.  Just
like.  And a world of differences dissolves in that moment.

His mother is Susan.  She is 22 years old.  Her mother, a widow, is away at the
time of our visit.  We learn that Susan's husband is helping support the family. 
He is a brickmason.  Susan's sister is also married.  She is 16.  She laughs shyly 
at our surprise.  I ask James if this is common.  "Oh no, he says.  This is a very
recent thing."  It is not a good thing either.  Many of these young marriages are
ending in divorce.  When we ask how we can pray for them, Susan says, "Pray
that my husband will continue to love me and not leave me."  My heart hurts.

"What do you do for fun?"  It is a simple question.  It is a logical question if you
are speaking to an American teenager.  Matt is 17.  So is the Matt who is part of
our team.  Both were born in November, though not on the same day.  Our Matt
loves to play the guitar.  He is part of a band, and teaches guitar.  He looks
forward to getting home for the 4th so he can "blow things up".  So I ask the Matt
who lives in Kauma, "What do you do for fun?"  "I am a businessman.  I do not
have time for fun."

  

Matt buys maize wholesale and sells it in the market.  He does this to help care
for his widowed sister, her two children, and the two orphans she has taken in. 
Like Nala, she doesn't know how old she is.  The whole time we are talking, she
turns away from James and looks down.  I ask him about this.  Is it because she
is a woman?  a widow?  Is she just shy?  Certain conventions govern how an
unmarried woman is to speak to a man.  He says if we were in a more rural
village, she would sit several yards distant from him and they would keep their
backs turned to one another.  Also, he says women who are uneducated are
embarassed and tend to look down.  I see this young woman already so
burdened by responsibility and loss.  I would like to give her the gift of carefree
youth...for a week...for a day.  It is not to be.

I smell the cakes before we walk through an opening in a thatched fence to find
a little girl holding a lime.  We know something is different here.  Maria's sons
and daughters with their families live in the several houses within this compound. 
We find Maria on baking day.  Every other day she and her granddaugher bake
1,500 maize cakes to sell in the market.  I ask about the components of the cakes: 
maize, baking powder, milk, eggs...  I tell them we make this at home.  Cornbread. 
I tell them we eat it with beans.  We have seen beans in the market.  But, I do not
bake my cornbread muffins in tin cans that have been cut in half.  I do not stand
outside stoking a charcoal fire in the heat of the day to bake them.  I do not tell
them this.

We sense this family is doing better than most.  Maria's husband works as a
guard, like Nala, and the maize cakes sell for about a nickel a piece.  What does 
this buy them?  They eat a third meal.  Tea and scones for breakfast in addition
to their two meals of Nsima.  This is wealth.  I look at this woman who is so
industrious and I wonder, does she ever dream of anything else?  Would she like
to travel?  Would she like chocolate?  What does she know of the outside world. 
I feel defensive of her.  I want to offer her these things.  Then I wonder, Is she
happy?  Is this enough?  Could I learn from her to find joy wherever I am?  Who
is to say that she does not know far more about happiness than I do?  I am
challenged.  I am provoked.  I have far more questions than answers.

One last stop.  At this home, we are invited inside. In the corner is a treadle
sewing machine like the one my grandmother used when I was a very little girl. 
Again, I presume that this indicates a person of means.  Why?  We are
encouraged to sit in the chairs while Dorothy takes her place on the floor. 
Though we all rise to offer her our seat, she will have none of it.  We are her
guests and hospitality holds a very high value in this culture.  Dorothy has the
saddest eyes I have ever seen.  Despair.  That is the word Kyle uses later to
describe the atmosphere in that place.  Dorothy has lost her husband and her
only child.  She is raising her two grandchildren as well as two orphans.  Oh, and
she has a death sentence.  She is HIV positive.  The government provides
medication for her, but she can't afford to eat the nutritious foods she has been
told are essential for her health.  She worries about dying and leaving these
children alone.  Her 17 year old grandson is working and going to college.  It is
he who uses the sewing machine to do clothing repairs for people in the village.

If anyone has ever needed hope, Dorothy needs hope.  Kyle asks Dorothy if she
knows about Jesus.  This begins a beautiful unfolding of the story of how Jesus
loves her and wants to be with her and that she is NOT alone.  She says that she
would very much like to know Jesus and that she wants to be with him...now...and
forever.  We pray with her and for her.  I am reminded of when Jesus visits with
Zaccheus in his home.  Zaccheus is forever changed by the experience of
meeting Jesus.  Jesus characterizes it like this in the Luke account, "Today
salvation has come to this house..."  This is how it feels when we walk away. 
Dorothy's circumstances are still very dire.  But Dorothy has hope.  Salvation
has come...  

 

Later in the week we have the privilege of presenting her with a Bible in
Chechewa. She holds it like precious treasure.  And I think of my Bible.  And I
know I will never see it in quite the same way.

There is a richness to each of the persons we have met on our walk today that I
am truthfully unable to convey.  I wish you could hear their voices...the cadence,
the timbre, the tone.  I wish you could see how quickly a fussing baby sooths
when its mother ties it on her back.  I wish you could see the little children
keeping the fire.  I wish you could hear the laughter and the giggles and the
cries of "Nzungu!!" (white person) as we pass.  I wish, just once, you could look
into the warm, soft eyes of a Malawian as he grips your hand and continues to
hold it while talking with you.  I wish you could have three or four beautiful
children wrapping their arms around your waist all at the same time....

*I hope Nicholas Sparks would not mind that I borrowed his title.  It seemed so very
appropriate.  I have taken a great many walks in my life, but none more memorable
than this. 

*Originally published 7 July 2009 after a life changing trip to Malawi.          

23

Twenty-three years ago two children promised to love "until death..."  It was folly, really.  They were babies.  He was 22.  She was 20.  They had known one another 9 months.  What were they thinking?  They had no idea what they were getting themselves into...

Twenty-three years.  Three babies.  Better or worse.  Eight homes.  Thousands of miles traveled.  Richer or poorer.  Hundreds of acquaintances.  A precious handful of really close friends.  Sickness and Health.  Six dogs.  One cat.  An infinity of memories and moments... 

I was the wide-eyed, innocent girl.  And that naively optimistic boy has loved me better than I deserve.  I owe him a thousand 'thank you's.  But today, I will offer him twenty-three.  Twenty-three 'thank you's for twenty three years.

1.  Thank you for loving me all the time, no matter what.  I know it hasn't been easy.  And I don't pretend to understand it.  But I am grateful, all the same.

2.  Thank you for being a fellow gypsy.  I have so many beautiful memories of our family, and of the two of us, in remarkable locales all over the world.  Thank you for watching all those Rick Steves videos with me and listening to me wag on incessantly about mind-numbing minutia.  You are a very good sport.

3.  Thank you for being the sane one.  I have never been qualified for the role.  It has been nice to know that while I flit about erratically, experiencing my ecstatic highs and my abysmal lows, that somewhere there is a tether of sanity that will never let me be completely lost.

4.  Thank you for providing for our family.  I don't say it enough.  How do I tell you what it has meant to be home with our little ones as they grew up?  To witness the little miracles and discoveries.  To teach them.  To open the world for them.  To read and play.  I could never have done that without you.  It means more than I can say.

5.  Thank you for surrendering your suspicious nature with regard to food.  Does this sound familiar? "I don't like that."  "Really, how have you had it prepared?"  Oh, I've never eaten it, but I don't like it."  Or this?  "I just can't eat squash.  I don't like the name."  :)  Thank you for triumphing over your fear to become a fellow culinary explorer.  And thank you for understanding how much it means to me to eat artfully prepared food in a beautiful place.

6.  Thank you for being god of all things technological at our house.  Thank you for providing me the opportunity to remain blissfully ignorant and still have computers, phones, iPods, etc... that work.  :)

7.  Thank you for our beautiful piano.  Thank you for buying it when we were so poor.  When we had nothing, you knew I needed a piano in my home.  So many hours of pleasure and therapy it has given me.  And, of course, as each of our children has grown up playing, the joy continues to multiply...exponentially.

8.  Thank you for being a godly man.  You haven't done it for me.  But it does matter to me.  I respect and admire your integrity and your piety.

9.  Thank you for every art museum you have traipsed through with me.  I know sometimes you did it entirely as a gift to me.  But it seems to me that over the years you have developed your own affinity for them.  Sort of.  ;)

10.  Thank you for all the made up words you sing to songs.  I would be lying if I said it didn't bother me at first.  Being a neurotic first born who needs things to be right, and who happens to remember every lyric she has ever heard, I cringed at your inaccuracies.  But over the years, I have come to prefer your...ahem...creative take on things.  You make me laugh.

11.  Thanks for Pikes Peak.  I know you thought I was crazy at first.  But you were unwilling to let me be crazy all by myself.  Thanks for all those trail runs at the Warner Parks as we prepared.  For slanting rays of sunlight, wild flowers, chipmunks, deer, squirrels.  Those still comprise some of my very favorite running memories.

12.  Thank you for indulging my passion for books.  I am a pretty thrifty shopper with my Goodwill/clearance rack wardrobe, but I do go a little crazy with books.  Thank you for understanding how important they are to me and for not cutting up my credit card or exiling me from Amazon.

13.  Thank you for spending New Years Eve in Times Square with Kelsey.  What a glorious memory that will always be for her.  I know your bladder will probably never be the same, but thank you for giving her that gift.

14.  Thank you for snow boarding with Jake, and for dozens of cub scout camping trips with both of the boys.  Thank you for teaching them how to be men.

15.  Thank you for taking care of all things financial on behalf of our family.  Thank you that I never have to worry my pretty little head about that.  I trust you.  I have complete confidence in your ability and your judgment.  That is a wonderful feeling.

16.  Thank you for opening your heart to Orthodoxy.  I know that each of us has walked our own road to the Orthodox faith, and that it means something distinctly different to each of us.  But I am delighted that we were able to go there together.  I look forward to uncovering the riches of our faith over years and years to come.

17.  Thank you for your generosity.  Thank you that, even when we had nothing, we gave to others.  I remember the first budget you drew up for us.  I remember that the first line item was our tithe.  It was never open for negotiation.  I also remember that it was your goal for us to increase, not just the amount of our giving to others, but the percentage of our giving each year.  This we have done.  I believe God has honored that, and I highly esteem you for it.

18.  Thank you for loving my family.  Thank you that I have never had to choose between them and you. 

19.  Thank you for Bill Cosby, Himself.  I love the DVD.  But I have always loved watching you watch it even more.  When you start laughing so hard you can hardly breathe, it doesn't really matter any more what he is saying.  It's funny.

20  Thanks for being my partner in the delightful, magical, terrifying, difficult, bewildering, wonderful adventure of parenting.  It has been (and continues to be) the most challenging and most rewarding experience of my life.  You have been a worthy partner in crime.

21.  Thank you for forgiveness.  Seventy times seventy times seventy times seven times.  I wish I didn't require it so often.  I hope there is still more where that came from.

22.  Thank you for memories.  Thanks for jokes only our family knows.  Thanks for the stories and experiences that have become so much a part of the warp and weft of who we are we don't know where they begin and end. 

23.  Thank you for loving me all the time, no matter what.  I know I already said that.  But it is the most important thing.  You have astounded me with your relentless love for me.  I have fought it sometimes.  Sometimes I didn't even want it.  And I know I don't deserve it.  "And this is love, not that we loved God, but that He first loved us..."  Thanks for showing me what that looks like.

I love you...always.

 

*Photo at the bottom of the post copyright Angela Davis.

**Originally published 14 March 2010. A sentimental favorite...in honor of the day. :)

A Love Tale....

The sun shone on a mild fall day.  A young man and a young woman walked down a dirt road.  Scrubbed clean and fresh, they wore the very best clothes they owned. The minister met them at the end of the lane.  He left them standing there and went to fetch his wife and children.  After he returned, he said a few words and prayed a prayer.  And my grandpa was married to my grandma....seventy years ago.

70 years, 7 houses (plus a barn they lived in while they built one of those--my mom assures me it was actually a house, it was only being used as a barn), 5 children who lived, 1 tiny little one who was born too early and did not, 7 grandchildren--one of whom died in a tragic automobile accident over a decade ago, 13 great grandchildren--the oldest of whom will marry his bride next Saturday, 70 gardens and 69 summers of canning--Because of her stroke, this was the first summer of my grandmother's married life that she didn't can, thousands of cows milked--they made their living putting milk on your table, hundreds of hay houses built in the barn by happy grandchildren, 1 magical Mimosa tree that transported same climbing grandchildren to far away lands, a succession of friendly collies who frequently smelled of skunk, 1 trip to Germany to visit their daughter who was then in the air force as well as some distant family relations, a life time of stories from my grandpa who NEVER forgets anything, countless Sunday dinners where there was always at least twice as much food as we could possibly eat--but never quite enough of Grandma's chicken and dumplings, dozens of chocolate ice cream cones bought at Nick Tanner's, 1 church where they were charter members and my grandpa has been a deacon for most of his adult life, 1 song they always used to sing at church--A Light at the River--I can hear it now in their voices; their harmony; the only way it will ever be right.

Today we honored them. Today scores of people came to say to them that it matters. It matters that they stuck it out. It matters that they have given themselves to others. THEY matter. They matter a great deal.  In many ways, this has probably been their most challenging year. My grandmother's stroke in the spring has meant that, for the most part, they have lived apart. When I stayed in the hospital with my grandmother this summer, I remember watching my grandpa. He visited with all of us, but when he talked to grandma, his voice changed. I don't know how to explain it.  But I could hear it.  He had this tone, this way of speaking, that was only hers.  She will go home to him in two weeks.

Today he gave her a gift. She dreamed one night that he had given her a ring for their anniversary. So, her little elven daughters set out, with grandpa's blessing, to make her dream come true. Today he placed the ring on her finger. She looked at it as if things were just as they should be. They were.

Other shots from the day:

 

Some of the beauty my mom cultivates.  Is it any wonder I can not LIVE without flowers?

Great grandkids in their own magic tree.  Tucker smiling at his favorite aunt. ;)

Tucker in Grandma's lap.  Anna feeling festive.  Lauren undercover.

Seth stopping by to say hi.   Father and Son love.

*Originally posted 5 October 2008. Postscript: My beautiful grandmother and my precious nephew Tucker have both relocated to Heaven since this post. I love the picture of her holding him. I imagine they are having quite a time together just now. Memory Eternal!

Aggressive Articulation

Taylor Mali is a poet...a slam poet. He is also an outspoken advocate for educators and for literacy. He has a brilliant, incisive satirical wit. A bit like a modern day Voltaire...with rhythm. The first of his pieces I experienced was his assessment of the "agressive inarticulation" of our contemporary society and our unwillingness to commit to an idea. It is called "Like....You know".   

My two favorites are below.The first is titled "What Teachers Make". It is one of the best things I have ever heard on the dignity, the honor, and the importance of the educator. The second, though marginally informative, is mostly just for fun. It is called "The The Impotence of Proofreading". 

Mali uses precise, intentional, and sometimes colorful language. Be aware that both pieces contain examples of each.

*Originally posted 6 May 2008 

 

Born to Run...

"It all began with a simple question no one could answer.  It was a five word puzzle that led me to a photo of a very fast man in a very short skirt...a murder, drug guerillas, and a one-armed man with a cream cheese cup strapped to his head.  I met a beautiful blonde forest ranger who slipped out of her clothes and found salvation by running naked in the Idaho forests, and a young surfer babe in pigtails who ran straight toward her death in the desert....barefoot batman...the Kalahari bushmen, the toenail amputee...and ultimately, the ancient tribe of the Tarahumara and their shadowy disciple, Caballo Blanco.  In the end, I got my answer, but only after I found myself in the middle of the greatest race the world would never see....And all because, in January of 2001, I asked my doctor this, 'How come my foot hurts?'"

Thus begins one of the most intriguing books I have ever read.  Christopher McDougall's Born to Run combines masterful storytelling, mythic (yet real) figures, and truths about running that will blow your mind.  He drew me deep into the narrative with the first few sentences and told a story that was too fantastic not to be real.  I found myself so invested in the characters, I could hardly wait to find out what happened to them next.  Laced through the stories are discoveries the author makes about running as he spends time with these folks, many of which are quite startling...and liberating.

Plagued by repeated injuries and unwilling to accept the suggestion that perhaps someone of his size is just not cut out for running, McDougall begins a fascinating voyage to see running in a very different way.  In the Tarahumara, he finds a people who run for the sheer pleasure of it, who are still running injury free into their nineties, and who seem immune to the top ten diseases that are killing Americans.  What is it that they know and we don't?  They eat a spare, vegetable based diet.  They live in simplicity and in harmony with those around them.  They have a very precise idea of how to treat others that demands hospitality and self sacrifice.

This last factor is more important than you might think.  Over and over, from running coaches and from runners themselves, the author learns that the most successful endurance runners are also gracious and generous human beings.  Witness Ultra legend Scott Jurek.  As a teenager, Scott came home after school every day to care for his sick mother who was dying of a debilitating disease.  He persisted on the cross country team even though his inadequate practice opportunities meant that he did not excell. He was tormented mercilessly by his teammates.  When his mother died, he suddenly had all this time on his hands.  So he ran...miles and miles and miles. A teammate enlisted him to run an ultra with him, and Scott won it.  From there, his life has been one triumph after another.  And yet, this 7 time Western States Ultra champion, who won the Leadville 100 then set a course record at Badlands just two weeks later, has never forgotten what it feels like to be the one bringing up the rear.  After every win, he wraps himself in a sleeping bag and stands at the finsh line for hours cheering on each finisher.

McDougall introduces us to fascinating folks like Barefoot Ted, the verbose eccentric who eschews running shoes in favor of his own unencumbered (and unprotected) feet or, as an occasional concession to safety, Vibram Five Finger "shoes".  Jen and Billy are wild twenty somethings who party like rockstars, wake up late, and still have 100 miles in them.  Eric Orton's coaching and friendship enable the author to be part of the race of a lifetime, and he, in turn, gets to meet the Tarahumara for whom he has the greatest reverence and respect.  And Arnulfo Quimare, the silent, regal, undisputed champion among a people who call themselve the Raramuri (running people).

The character who most captures my imagination is the enigmatic phantom, Caballo Blanco.  After acting as "mule" for Manuel Luna in the Leadville 100, Micah True leaves Colorado to do something no gringo has ever done; live among the reclusive Tarahumara in Mexico.  He fully embraces their lifestyle eating pinole (a corn porridge), beans, and limes and drinking homemade beer, ditching his running shoes for huarache type sandals made from old tire rubber, living in a hut he builds with his own hands, and running...running for miles and miles for the sheer joy of feeling his body move, strong and free.  He embraces the Tarahumara culture of korima, unconditional living.  If he is out running and needs assisstance, he stops at a hut and asks for it.  By the same token, his home and his larder are always open to visitors who pass his way.  And so, everyone is cared for.

It is Caballo Blanco who organizes the culminating event in the book.  He dreams of an ultramarathon that will allow the Tarahumara to race inside their own canyon where they will not be exploited or manipulated, but where they can have the joy of running with some of the very best ultra athletes currently racing.  Just getting there is an adventure and it looks for all the world as though it may not come off.  I will not reveal to you how it all turns out, but I will tell you that I was crying like a baby before it was over.  The comraderie, the kindness, and the ebullience completely overwhelmed me.

Whether you are a runner or not, you will find this story enthralling.  If you are a runner, you just might find yourself seeing the run with new eyes.  If you have lost that sense of fascination and wonder with what your body can do, perhaps you will find it here.

Sample a bit of the story HERE.   

Photographs by Luis Escobar.

*Originally posted 29 July 2009. This has been my most visited post EVER. Every single day since I wrote it someone has stopped by. Hot topic.

To Every Thing...a Season...

I began blogging in the spring. March, to be precise. Almost four years ago. It has been a wild ride. I have made so many friends, near and far. I have thrown almost everything that matters to me at these pages. Agony, discovery, wonder, beauty, faith, struggle, joy...all have found a place here.

I've told some stories. I've shared music, poetry, and books that inspire, provoke, and stretch me. I've taken you along on trips to far away places, to the tops of mountains, and to the deep, dark places of my soul.

I hope I am learning to be more vulnerable. To say more of the things that matter. And I am grateful to have had the opportunity to honor here some of the people who make my life so sweet.

Soon will begin a new season. I am reformatting my blog. It will be a good thing. But it is bittersweet. I hope to transport a handful of posts. I will archive a few that have sentimental value for me or for those I love. (Joshua asked me, "What about the birthday posts?") I will save the birthday posts. :) But most of it will go away. I mean, we're not talking Pulitzer worthy stuff here. Just bits and pieces of my life.

I have to tell you, I am not techy. My brain is hurting a little as I try to understand a whole new way of doing things. So.....I am going to take a little break from writing for a couple of weeks to give it my full attention. I will be re-posting some of the pieces that have been visited most over the years. And perhaps a couple of sentimental favorites. So feel free to stop by. You might find something you have never seen. Of something we have both forgotten.

I will let you know when the new site is up and running. My goal is to go live on March 1. We'll see....

Speak To Me....

   

"The Lord your God...will quiet you with His love,
He will rejoice over you with singing.”

Zephaniah 3:17

 

I'm the type of gal who wonders what that sounds like. You can argue that it's metaphorical if you like. But I think you're wrong. I'm a mom. I know what it is to gaze into the perfect face of one that has captivated you and feel song, unbidden, pour from your lips. Like love has grown so full it can no longer be contained. It becomes a vocal caress that sings its way deep inside the beloved.

There have been moments in my life when I was almost sure I could hear it. Him singing over me, I mean. Quieting me...with love.

This is what I think of when I listen to David Teems' new recording, Speak To Me. 

God's own words, "sett forth gorgeously" in the poetry of the King James translation, wash over me. "I have loved you with an everlasting love: therefore with lovingkindness have I drawn thee."

The language is wed with the artistry of Phil Keaggy and Tom Hemby, two of the finest guitarists Nashville has ever known.

"...the music plays with an effortlessness that not only honors the Scripture, but that allows the rest of us to drift on the currents. 'There is a river,' it says, 'whose streams thereof shall make glad the city of God.'"

And just like I sang my love deep inside my babies, I feel the music carrying God's truth deep inside me.

Most of the music is original; the intimate outpouring of the player as he interacts with the words. Sometimes he includes bits of songs that echo the theme. One of my favorites is when God is wooing his faithless bride...Israel...me...imploring her to return...with the gentle strains of Softly and Tenderly underneath.

Each track collects passages around themes like Love, Wisdom, Seasons, Mercy. Many of my favorites are here. Yet, I find myself astonished by them, as though they were new. Exquisite morsels of manna. Feeding me. Healing me. Giving rest to my soul.

Messenger...

Messenger
by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
    equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

 

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
    keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

 

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
    astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

 

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

    and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

    to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

    that we live forever.

...from THIRST

Listening Notes: Barton Hollow...of The Civil Wars

Sweltering summer evening. Small wooden Church. Windows open against the heat admit the sounds of crickets and frogs. And wet night air. A couple stands and slowly walks to the front. He places his hands on the strings of a guitar, and she turns her face toward his. And from them sings a longing so deep I can't be sure if it's theirs or mine....

But I forget myself...

It's easy to do. The music seems to belong to another place. Another time.

Beyond time.

It takes our most intimate yearnings and makes them poetry. And gives them back to us. And our hearts hear them. And know them at once.

Painfully exquisite harmonies weave over and under, in and out. Sometimes they come alongside one another, caressing, sensuous. And then.....a unison....that seems to be two sides of the same breath.

And I am grateful that the instrumentation is clean and spare. Uncluttered. Every note chosen. Of purpose. Sometimes raucous and driving. Sometimes delicate as rain. Always right. Just right.

I finally give myself permission to add a third part. Sometimes. To sing with the two...to be lost in the music with them...is intense. And wonderful.

Love is hymned here. Love untasted, but missed. Love without end. Love bitter...and irresistible. Love lost. Love redemptive. Love whimsical. Love that might yet be....

I wonder if it is disingenuous to have fourteen favorite songs on the same album

and

I wonder how many songs there would have to be for me to not wish there were more....

Barton Hollow by The Civil Wars

Her 67th Year...

Some years of our lives ripple softly, gurgling from time to time over gentle protrusions beneath the surface. Clean, like glass. Quiet. Smooth.

And some years are class five whitewater. Terrifying. Exhilarating. Fatiguing. And, if survived, not without glimpses of glory.

My mother's 67th year has been of the latter variety.

Right around her birthday last year she received the dreaded diagnosis. CANCER. Terrifying to me. Because...my mom is invincible. When I was a kid, I thought adults didn't get sick. My parents never did. And even now, with five marathons to my credit, I visit my mom in the summer and she humiliates me. Not on purpose, you understand. I just feel like a slacker when I work alongside her.

And now my invincible mom had an invader inside her body. She felt it. "I just want to get rid of it," she said. And while I was trying to comprehend a world where my mom was not superhuman, she simply did the next thing. Next doctor's appointment. Next test. Surgery. Chemotherapy. Lose hair. Lose energy. Learn what it is like to feel pain in your BONES. Literally. Then, just when you have had about all the fun you can stand. Radiation. Every day. For weeks.

Did she ask questions? Yes. Did she wonder "Why me?" Of course. Was she bitter? Not once. So far as I know.

Here is what she could not wait to tell me when we talked: She told me about people who had called. Brought food. Sent notes. Made her a beautiful quilt. Bought hats...and scarves. Loaned wigs. Driven her. Spent the day with her. People she hardly knew who had invaded her world with kindness. People who had always loved her, but took time to make sure she knew.

I could tell you I saw a new side of my mother this year. But that would not be true. Not really. I think I saw the mother I've always known...amplified. More grateful. More aware. More courageous. More tenacious. Even more invincible. But maybe not in the way I thought.

I hope I have inherited her invincibility of spirit. I would like to think I could navigate the class fives with as much grace as she has shown.

Thanks, Mom, for showing me the way.

I love you. Happy Birthday!

A Birthday Story....

On this day, 70 years ago, Franklin Roosevelt was in the White House. Jimmy Dorsey was at the top of the charts. And Europe was plunging head over heels into the second of the Great wars.

And...on a little farm in the hills of East Tennessee...to Amel and Elsie Howard...a baby was born. A boy. Their second.

This little boy would grow up drinking sweet, cold water from a deep well. He would eat apples right off the tree. He would work hard alongside his daddy and brothers to wrest a living from the soil. And he would enjoy many a strengthening meal cooked up on a wood-burning stove.

Some years later, he would tell his children about the first time ever he ate baloney. About how he thought it was just about the finest thing he had ever tasted. He'd speak of the extraordinary luxury of having an orange at Christmas. And his children, who had never gone wanting, would not understand.

This boy would grow up to become the song leader at church. He married him a piano player. They brought three children into the world, with songs in their heart, and on their lips. They would sing everywhere. In the car, in the cornfield, and in the living room around a tall, upright piano that had once been a player.

This man would would give his children many gifts. He would teach them to love God and to take care of others. He would work hard to make sure they had everything they needed. He would love their mama. And, just maybe, the very best gift he gave them was curiosity. An appetite for foods they had never tasted. Wander lust.  A desire to see new places and to know about things.

Eventually those children grew up and had families of their own. And the man would come visit. And fix stuff. And he would bring them apples and tomatoes, peppers and corn. The fruit of his labor.

Years would pass.  And then one day, his daughter would find herself wondering what you give a man who has given you so much. How do you say thank you for surprises he brought home in his lunch box? For braces? For coming to your basketball games? For a lifetime of music, and road trips, and camping? And love?

But she knew he didn't do it to be thanked.

He did it because it was who he was.

Happy Birthday, Daddy!!  I love you.  Always.

The Four Holy Gospels...

My whole body trembled with awe as I stood before it. The centuries old Book of Kells, arguably the most famous illuminated gospel in the world. An accompanying exhibit acquainted us with the painstaking process by which dedicated artists united precious pigments to vellum. It was the work of a lifetime. To create a setting worthy of the words. Of the Word.

Its magnificence gloriously conveys the sacredness...the otherness...of that which is contained within. And the beauty opens a place inside us for the words to rest.

Where are our twenty-first century illuminators?
Who is that artist capable of wedding the triumphs and tragedies of our age with the Story older than time?

Charis-Kairos (The Tears of Christ)

Makoto Fujimura is an avant garde artist living at Ground Zero in New York. He contends daily with Kairos-Chronos tension, employing ancient Nihonga painting techniques to speak with a thoroughly modern voice. His passionate, complex, exhilarating works captivate both mind and soul.

He has, very possibly, created the illuminated masterwork of our time.

Matthew - Consider the Lilies

As I slide the clothbound book out of its elegant slipcover, my heart pounds. A glass case had separated me from the Book of Kells. But I hold this work of extraordinary loveliness in my own hands. I turn the pages slowly, luxuriously, drinking deeply.

The large scale frontispieces are glorious! Charis-Kairos focuses on the Tears of Christ "tears for the atrocities of the past century and for our present darkness." Each of the others is inspired by themes within the gospel. Read Mako's own introductions here.

Mark - Water Flames

Eighty-nine illuminated capitals begin the chapters. And each page contains gorgeous embellishments that illuminate the passage. As I read through The Four Holy Gospels, it is these that wreck me.

Some are representational and rather obvious: a fish, a serpent, a cluster of grapes. But most are subtle and leave space for you to bring your own creativity...your own story...to the page...

A splash of Nard as a woman pours herself out...
Brooding clouds...tinged with blood...over Gethsemane.
Intimations of water beside a storm tossed boat...or a baptism.
A sapphire sky flecked with gold, but with edges of a troubling gray, over Bethlehem.
Parables of the Kingdom laid against great swaths of gold.
The Passion, devastatingly conveyed with drops and smears of blood.
And finally, a tree of life...redeeming, restoring...making all things new.

John - In the Beginning

If you have never encountered the story of Christ, you could find no better introduction than The Four Holy Gospels. Or if, like me, you cut your teeth on them, I assure you they are new here.

If you splurge on only one thing this year...if you treat yourself to one bit of beauty...let it be this book. There is no part of you that will not be nourished, cultivated, challenged, inspired.