Anam Cara

And Thereby Hangs a Tale...

David Teems is one of only a few people I have ever met who has the same rabid, romantic infatuation with words I do.  He and I have exchanged many a well-turned phrase only to hear the other sigh with that deep "Ah yes! Beautiful!" sort of sigh. 

David has long been a student of the devoted life.  He has had wonderful teachers along the way; Thomas Merton (another shared obsession), Saint John of the Cross, and Saint Bernard to name a few.  He has also benefited from the instruction of three other "mystics" whose names might be less familiar: Oreo, Salem and Savannah.  It is these three indomitable spirits who inspired his new book, And Thereby Hangs a Tale: What I Really Know About the Devoted Life I Learned From My Dogs.

"Set worship adrift in me.  Awaken my heart, the Eden sleeping in me.  I submit to all my teachers...I submit to the wonders of creation...I will listen for instruction.  I will suffer their gentle rebuke that I may find the rule of life...Let worship flourish; let it prosper in me.  Let it filter into the very lengths and limits of me, into the full extent of who I am."

In stories both delightfully humorous and deeply poignant, he explains how his four-legged friends gave a physical texture to slippery concepts like abiding in the Presence, uncommon love, vibrant silence, authentic self-hood, and union with God.  Through the warp of these, he weaves a weft of poetry and mystical language from sources as varied as Shakespeare, Rumi, St. John of the Cross, Jack London, G.K. Chesterton and Khalil Gibran.

"Love is the logos, the central heat of inspiration, the primal cause, the unreason God reasons with."

I would buy the book purely for the prayers which close each chapter.  I know I will revisit these in my own devotional life again and again.  The narrative, while descriptive, is clean and uncluttered, and imminently readable.  But the prayers, well, those are pure poetry...rich, luscious, honest, vigorous, and potent...an elegant distillation.  This one is my favorite.

You are the sun in my eyes, Lord, the day that breaks on all my sleeping senses.  Search me until you see yourself.  I am hopeful clay.  And in the yielding, in the undoing, in the unraveling of all my fictions, in the unspinning of all my webs, in the letting go, I will know with certainty just who I am.  Let joy overcome me, even as sight given to a man born blind.  Let gladness and thanksgiving be my twin witnesses in a cynical world.  Let redemption, like worship, be a continuous event in my life.  Author me into gladness.  Put yourself into this peculiar work.  For I am no less a gospel, a love letter written by the sure hand of majesty.  I am a poem forming in the mouth of God, a psalm ascending, an ecstasy rising in the midst of all my disenchantments.  I am contentment in the heart of deity.  I am myself.  I am awake.

In Christ my wakefulness.  Amen.

Treat yourself to this book.  Snuggle into stories that will remind you of beloved four-leggers in your own life.  And allow them to nuzzle, bound, and lick you into the Presence.

 

Begin With Me....

It happened like this: 

I was having this conversation with my mom about ways I found Europe different from the United States.  One of the things that was most...inspiring...or challenging... was how very committed they are to stewardship of resources.  In Barcelona, the PUBLIC trashcans all have three compartments: One for organic waste, one for recyclables, and one for actual irredeemable trash.  When we visited the sports camp in Italy, they sorted lunchtime waste in the same manner.  The children knew exactly what to do. 

No store automatically gives you a bag with anything.  In fact, most places make you pay for those flimsy little plastic bags we accumulate in obscene numbers.  People in Europe walk to the market or grocery with their rolling cart or their cloth bags in tow.  I even saw a little girl rolling her own miniature cart right beside mom's.

I was in the midst of telling my mom how frustrating I find our systematic waste of paper (junk mail, lengthy receipts, etc..), plastic, energy...when I heard this voice.  It was as audible as if my mom had been speaking to me.  She wasn't.  The voice said, "What are YOU doing about it?"

I literally stopped mid-sentence and had to admit that I was not personally doing anything to improve the situation.  Oh, I have a green membership at the Frist Center, and elect not to have the library print my receipt.  I own cloth grocery bags, though they are too frequently absent from my car when I need them.  I stopped recycling when I had babies.  It was just more than I could handle.  My "babies" are now 18, 16 and 13.

Busted!

A few years ago I heard Bill Hybels speak on the topic of Divine Discontent.  He said that when something rankles you, when you are disturbed and troubled by a situation, it may very well be that you are the one meant to do something about it.  Divine Discontent. 

Example:  My friend Anne just rode a bicycle all the way across the United States to help raise awareness for Blood:Water Mission......the same organization to which my daughter gave all her Christmas presents a couple of years ago......the same organization born out of the heart of a teenager name Jena who had a dream to provide clean water to families in Africa.

When something troubles you, do something about it.  Ride a bike.  Give extravagantly.  Start a movement.

It's a principle that lives in the spiritual as well as the physical realm.  The marvelous and the mundane.

So I will be recycling again.  And looking for ways to create less waste.  I would appreciate any tips you have on organization and segregation of recyclables.  It's a small thing, but it's a start.

Far more than this, I am asking God to purge complaint and criticism from my mouth.  I am asking Him for the courage to act on my concerns and not just fret about them.

Where change is needed, big or small, let it begin with me.... 

The Extraordinary Ordinary...

“Fresh beauty opens one's eyes wherever it is really seen, but the very abundance and completeness of the common beauty that besets our steps prevents its being absorbed and appreciated. It is a good thing, therefore, to make short excursions now and then to the bottom of the sea among dulse and coral, or up among the clouds on mountain-tops, or in balloons, or even to creep like worms into dark holes and caverns underground, not only to learn something of what is going on in those out-of-the-way places, but to see better what the sun sees on our return to common everyday beauty.”  ~John Muir

Shortly after I returned from my lengthy trip abroad, a friend asked me, "Does home look pale and uninteresting after seeing so many wonderful things?"  My honest answer, "No".  I told him I felt like Dorothy returning from Oz; seeing the familiar with new eyes.

I walked around my home seeing our fingerprints all over it; our table where we've shared so many lovely meals with one another and with friends; our pictures, our books, our piano, our porch.  I ran my favorite running trails and realized how much of my journey is tied up in those places; conversations, prayers, tears, songs, stories, flutter and settle among the rocks and trees like butterflies.  The first time I walked back into my church, I felt my whole body relax into it, and I realized how I had craved it...how much I had longed to be here...with these people...in this place.  I drove the streets of downtown Franklin, and saw it with that filmy sort of dreamlike quality all the pretty girls used to have on Star Trek.

The most ordinary places had become extraordinary.

If God is "everywhere present, filling all things", why do we go somewhere else to find Him?  What is it about a place that marks it as holy?  How is it that some locations usher us into the Presence almost without our consent?

I asked these questions a week ago as I began reflecting some of the God Places I have known.  Truthfully, I knew I would end up here.  At home.

This coming and going, the new and the old, has long been part of the story of life with God.  Moses had his burning bush, Jacob his ladder, Jesus a garden.  And the early church fathers and mothers seemed rather partial to deserts.

In my own life, I find that I need moments and places of intensity.  Places of beauty, of silence, of a heavy, persistent Presence.  They are not places to run away from my life.  They are places to remember what my life is.  And I hope I always return from them like Moses did, with my face shining.  I hope that, like Jacob, I know who I am.  And like Jesus, I hope that I walk back into my world ready to submit...even unto death.

God Places.  They are all around us, if only we are looking.  Sometimes they surprise us.  Sometimes they rescue us.  And sometimes, the most astonishing thing is how very close they have been to us all along...

Can you see them? 

Wildly Sacred...

Everybody needs beauty...places to play in and pray in where nature may heal and cheer and give strength to the body and soul alike.  ~John Muir

Even my crazy friends said I was insane.  Of course, that didn't keep some of them from wishing they were going with me.  A run, straight up the side of the most famous of Colorado's fourteeners, Pikes Peak.  It was the most grueling physical challenge I had ever taken on.  But the most important things that happened that day were not physical.  God romanced me on that mountain, revealing Himself in ways new and wondrous.

Silver trunked aspens stretched out long black limbs, and their leaves of verdigris shimmered and whispered in the wind.The strong, wild, acidic scent of evergreen was intoxicating.  A cerulean sky provided clean counterpoint for rugged stone and billowy clouds.  The highland meadows were a patchwork quilt of purple asters and Canterbury bells, yellow black-eyed susans, white Queen Ann's lace, and red coral bells.  Tiny, delicate alpine blossoms nestled within the rocks in places where trees refuse to grow.

Every clearing, each turn of the path, offered a new vista.  Mountain lakes, perilous crags, great swaths of green, and mountains thrusting their heads through the clouds, as far as I could see.  As I looked out over the astonishing landscape below, words like immense, vast, infinite suddenly had a color, a scent, a taste.  And the thought that played itself over and over in my head was, "You did this!  You did all this!  And........You love me?!"

This is too much for me.  But it is a thought that sings itself over me every time I enter the sacred wildness of God's creation.  I find wonder, and loveliness, and quietness of soul waiting for me there.

I share here mementos of a few favorite wild places, along with thoughts from like souls for whom wild places were God places. 

I thank you God for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes. 
~e.e. cummings

I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it.... People think pleasing God is all God care about.  But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back.  ~Alice Walker, The Color Purple

Benevolent, solemn, fateful, pervaded with divine light, every landscape glows like a countenance hallowed in eternal repose; and every one of its living creatures, clad in flesh and leaves, and every crystal of its rocks, whether on the surface shining in the sun or buried miles deep in what we call darkness, is throbbing and pulsing with the heartbeats of God.  ~John Muir

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes...

~ Elizabeth Browning

*Photos in the post:  Numbers one and five were taken in the Great Smokey Mountains National Park, TN, during two different autumns; number two last summer in Garden of the Gods National Landmark, Colorado; number three this past spring in Edwin Warner State Park, Nashville, TN; number four a couple of winters ago at a friend's cabin in East Tennessee; and number six last summer in the Warm Heart of Africa, Malawi.

The Table....

"I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one: I in them and you in me. May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me."  ~John 17: 22,23

I don't know how it happens.  It's a mystery...

I think the journey begins with waking.  The anticipation.  The knowing.  But I don't get butterflies til the first whiff of incense.  Then, those words, "Blessed is the Kingdom of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages.  Amen."  And my heart quickens because I know we are on our way.  To the Table.

We go there together.  We pray together, prayers of confession, of intercession.  We sing together.  We worship and bow down.  We are cleansed by the washing of the Word of Truth.  We are made ready.  Ready to go further up and further in.

"Let us love one another that we may confess Father, Son and Holy Spirit, the Trinity One in essence and UNDIVIDED." 

Hugs and kisses all around.  The putting right of that which divides.  We are being knit together.  One stitch...at a time.

"I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth..." 

I hear our voices.  Deep resonant bass voices, soft feminine voices, little girl voices.  I watch lips move on old, wizened faces, and on soft, shiny toddler faces.  And I think of that inexplicable cord that is pulling us closer.  And the voices are one voice.  And the faces are one face.

I don't know how it happens.  It's a mystery...

"Take, eat, this is my Body which is broken for you for the forgiveness of sins."

The priest breaks the bread.  And we sing our Amen, which is only a breath.  Hushed.  In awe.  As if by mutual consent.

"Drink ye all of this: this is my Blood of the New Covenant, which is shed for you and for many, for the forgiveness of sins."

This time our Amen is an inevitable crescendo.  Because we know we are getting so close.  The priest begins the prayers of transformation.  Our gifts: our bread, our wine, are becoming something more.  Something SO MUCH MORE.  Bells begin to ring celebrating the unutterable mystery that is taking place.  I can't breathe.

And then, like Isaiah, we find ourselves presented with a conundrum we are powerless to resolve.  God is offering HIMSELF to us.  HIS body.  HIS blood.  And in that moment of seeing Him for who He is, we see ourselves for who we are.  It is an impossible situation!   

"I believe, O Lord, and I confess that Thou art truly the Christ, the Son of the Living God, Who didst come into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief. And I believe that this is truly Thine own immaculate Body, and that this is truly Thine own precious Blood. Wherefore I pray Thee: have mercy upon me and forgive my transgressions, both voluntary and involuntary, of word and of deed, of knowledge and of ignorance. And make me worthy to partake without condemnation of Thine immaculate Mysteries, unto the remission of my sins, and unto life everlasting. Amen.

Of Thy Mystical Supper, O Son of God, accept me today as a communicant; for I will not speak of Thy Mysteries to Thine enemies, neither will I give Thee a kiss as did Judas; but like the thief will I confess Thee: Remember me, O Lord in Thy Kingdom.

Not unto judgment, nor unto condemnation, be my partaking of Thy Holy Mysteries, O Lord, but to the healing of soul and body."

Those words are a grace to me.  I have yet to say them all the way through without the lump in my throat which renders me temporarily speechless.

In one movement we approach the chalice.  And the Body and the Blood do something in us we cannot do for ourselves.  We are healed.  We are strengthened.  We are changed.  We are ONE. 

I don't know how it happens.  It's a mystery...

"In Rivendell all of them grew refreshed and strong.  Their clothes were mended as well as their bruises, their tempers, and their hopes.  Their bags were filled with food and provisions light to carry but strong to bring them over the mountain passes.  Their plans were improved with the best advice.  Now they rode away amid songs of farewell and good speed, with their hearts ready for more adventure, and with a knowledge of the road they must follow over the Misty Mountains to the Land Beyond."

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

Tolkien was not, perhaps, speaking of the Eucharist when he wrote this passage.  But his was a liturgical life, so he might very well have been thinking of it.  For me, it expresses, in less mystical and more concrete terms, the way I walk away from the table each week.  And so, I include it here. 

*I gratefully acknowledge my debt to C.S. Lewis' Last Battle for the phrase "further up and further in".

A Place of Silence...

FrenZy. noiSe. cHaOs. so MAny voiCes. CaN you? WiLL you? wHere is mY...? MOM!! driVE. CooK.  waSh...chaos..piCK up..PuT AWAY. eXpectations. Guilt NOISE PhoNe FrenZy!!!

"Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed."  ~Mark 1:35

As I drove to Gethsemani, I didn't quite know what to expect.  I had been there before.  With an agenda.  It had been a working weekend.  Nothing particularly spiritual.  And, I had been audacious enough to formulate an agenda for this trip as well; more spiritual this time, but still my own.  A few days earlier, God had blown that out of the water.  He had graciously emptied me of myself.  It didn't feel like grace.   It felt like death.  

Now, here I was, limping toward the unknown.  Raw.  Hurt.  Afraid.  Afraid of the silence.  Afraid of being unable to hide behind the frenzy and chaos of my life.  Afraid of God.

I need silence.  Often I crave it.  But even when I don't... especially when I don't...I need it.

I was, perhaps, as un-me that weekend as I have ever been.  I had taken several books.  I read very little.  I had my iPod.  I didn't turn it on.  I went for long walks and didn't tell God anything.  I just waited.  I drank in the quiet in long, deep breaths.  And like warm water, it begin to wash over the tired, noisy, wounded places in me, cleansing.... healing.

In that place, in the pervasive quiet of it, I began to learn to rest in God.  To lean in, to relax, to surrender.  I began to know, in the deep kind of knowing that is a blood and guts, visceral, body sort of knowing, that I was completely safe in Him.

How do I tell you what that means?  How do I convey to you how extraordinary that is for one who needs to be competent, to contribute, to have something valuable to offer?  How can you know how terrified I am of being nothing?

I've long wondered what Jesus talked to the Father about when He rose early and went to those solitary places.  I have recently begun to wonder if He said anything at all.  Perhaps He simply longed to be held and have His Father wash the noise from Him; to remind Him Who He was; to breathe the quiet and rest into Him that He would breathe onto others.
 

"How gently and lovingly Thou awakenest in my bosom,

where Thou dwellest secretly and alone!

And in Thy sweet breathing, full of blessing and glory, 

how delicately Thou inspirest my love!

~St. John of the Cross

God Places...

If God is “everywhere present, filling all things”, why do we go somewhere else to find Him?  What is it about a place that marks it as Holy?  How is it that some locations usher us into the Presence almost without our consent?  

It was our last day in Paris.  We had seen all the big tourist spots: Louvre,  Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame… There was one last ticket on our city pass.  Sainte Chapelle.  I didn't really know that much about it, but we had some time to spare.  We finished lunch in the courtyard at Notre Dame and strolled over to have a quick look. 

A romance was beginning for me that day, though I could not know it.

We entered the lower chapel first.  It is understated and elegant with golden fleur de lis and filigree against fields of sapphire and crimson.  Gilded columns and rib vaults draw the eye heavenward with solemnity and reverence.  

A narrow tower of spiraling stone stairs carried us to the upper chapel.  It was rather dark and cramped.  I was eager to be out of it.  As I made the final turn and abruptly spilled out into the chapel above, I was assaulted.   

By Holiness. 

My heart pounded.  I couldn’t breathe.  Hot tears flowed down my face.  I didn’t even notice them.  Light poured through windows that wrapped all around me, floor to ceiling.  Vibrating colors surged through the room, resting heavy on my skin; prickling, piercing.  I was unaware of anyone else in the room.  All I could see in that moment was God.  God vibrant and beautiful, regal and royal, and HOLY. HOLY!  HOLY!!
 
Excess.  Waste.  Deplorable waste.

That had been my practical Protestant assessment of cathedrals.  Even as an artist, I was incensed by the thought that men and women struggling to feed their families were asked to contribute to the construction of these extravagant edifices.
   
Until that moment.
 
In that moment, I knew that I would willingly starve to stand in a place where God hovered so perceptibly.  Where His Holiness was a tasteable, touchable, breathable reality.  

“In the year that king Uzziah died I saw also the LORD sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple. Above it stood the seraphims… And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory. Then said I, Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts.”  ~Isaiah 6, excerpts

 On a cool autumn day in Paris, I saw the LORD, high and lifted up.  And truly, I was undone.  This was a threshold, a beginning.  God was going to show Himself to me in ways I could not yet imagine…

to be continued..... 

Living...and Dying...in a Small Town

I don't know why we spent so much time at the funeral home.  Maybe it was that, when you live in a small town, you have some connection to almost everyone.  Or maybe it was because in a small town, you have to find your, ahem, social opportunities, where you can.

All I know is that when I was growing up we seemed to be there every week.  So much so that my cousins and I had worked out a system...a ritual of sorts.

First, we would survey the bevy of free stuff.  Emory boards, notepads, and the iconic funeral home fans all stamped with "Schubert's Funeral Home".  If it was a really good night, there would be rain caps.  They came in impossibly small packages, about the size of a matchbook.  Inside was a sheaf of plastic, folded accordion style and anchored at the tips with a snap, then folded over on itself to fit inside the tiny sleeve.  When the pleats were pulled apart, it magically expanded into a bonnet equal to the challenge of the most extravagantly back-combed and teased bouffant. Once I had pulled it out, I could never make it fit back inside.  That didn't really matter, because next week I'd be back for another.  I'm not really sure why they felt they needed to advertise.  They were, after all, the only game in town.

Next we would go hang out in the bathroom.  Now, before you make any generalizations about girls and bathrooms, you should know that the bathroom was really cool.  In front of the actual bathroom was a little anteroom; a lounge of sorts.  Not very large, I was surprised to notice when I was there again last week.  When I was a little girl it may as well have been a drawing room.  We did receive an occasional perturbed glare from some lady whom we had graciously permitted to powder her nose in our parlor.  But, by and large, we remained undisturbed.  

Eventually, even the life of a courtier becomes droll.  That's when we would head out to the porch. The porch wrapped around two sides of the building and was surrounded at that time by shrubbery, which made it a great place for ditching younger siblings.  We would dash around and between the legs of the men who had come outdoors for a smoke break, looking for the perfect place to hide.

Every now and again, when we had become too rambunctious, we would be corralled and made to come inside with our parents.  Then we had to listen to them go on and on about "how good she looks; so natural".  Here's the honest truth:  I have never seen anyone in a coffin who looked natural or good.  The most worn and haggard face becomes some sort of beautiful when there is a slight upward turn of the lips, or the light of mischief in the eyes.  Even grief gives a poignancy, a depth to the face, that draws the eye.  When the breath is gone from the face, there is no makeup that makes it right.  Something is gone.  The most important something.  Even I knew that, though I could not have said it then.

It never occurred to me that there might be something morbid about this frequenting of the funeral home.  It was all I knew.  And even now, I think I gained something important from the experience.  Unspoken truths melted into the fabric of me.  Truths like:  Death is a normal part of life.  It's not something you ignore or pretend won't happen to you or those you love.  And grief is something to be shared.  No one should have to mourn someone they love alone.  When people are hurting, show up.  You don't have to fix anything.  You don't have to say anything.  Just be there.

So thanks, Mom and Dad, for dragging me to the funeral home so many times.  You taught me more than you meant to. 

*The photograph at the top of the post was taken by my husband Mike at my Grandmother's funeral last week.  Some of her great grandchildren finding their own way to navigate the vagaries of life and death in a small town.  It was the inspiration for the post. 

La mia Bella Italia

The Italy I know is warm and sunny.  It is olive groves, and vineyards, and red clay roofs.  It is Tuscan pasta, Chianti, the Italian Riviera, and distinctly Catholic, if not in practice, at least in culture.  But my friend Iz lives in Italy.  And this is not her Italy at all.  "Come see me!", she said, "I want to show you MY Italy."  And so we came.  I am so very glad we did...

Iz's Italy lies in the foothills of the Alps.  On a clear day, when you can see the peak between the mountains, you are looking at France.  Great folds and vapors of cloud hover and sweep and crawl over the mountains, pausing sometimes to rest in crevices, plunging deep into caverns, racing along waterways, and sometimes dribbling and sometimes dumping rain over small villages of hearty, indomitable mountain spirits.

Iz's Italy has an extraordinary story.  It is a place of legend.  Of beginning.  Of struggle.  Of legacy... 

In the twelfth century, a wealthy French merchant named Peter Waldo was able to obtain a copy of Scripture.  He read it and was disturbed by the obvious discrepancies he saw between the Word and the church.  Like his contemporary, St. Francis, he began by giving away his fortune and assuming a life of poverty.  Then, also like Francis, he went to the Pope with his concerns.  While the Pope applauded his zeal, he forbade him to teach without authorization from the church.

Waldo was unable to quench the fire in his belly.  He had encountered truth.  And truth MUST prevail.  So he found a hidden place in the mountains of Bobbio.  And there he planted a Bible school.  In this school he would pass on the treasure of Scripture to those brave enough and hungry enough to receive it.  Then he would send them out, two by two, to carry the Word.  Most of them would never return...alive.

An now, 800 years later, the legacy continues...  True enough, the Pope no longer sends squadrons of soldiers to annihilate those who teach without the authorization of the church.  In fact, some might assume that Italy, seat of the Catholic Church, does not need the Word at all.  But they would be wrong.

It might surprise you (It certainly surprised me!) to learn that Italy has become a stronghold for the church of Satan.  In fact, satanists outnumber priests.  And slowly, but surely, they are taking one of the warmest, most genuinely gracious countries in the world for the enemy.  This MUST NOT BE!! 

And so, a remnant, not unlike the remnant that hid in mountain caves and stone dwellings all those centuries ago, stand in the gap.  And our friend Iz has become part of the remnant.  At Forterocca, she and the team of which she is part are preparing warriors, much like those warriors long ago, to go out. two by two, to an antagonistic world.  Because ours is a different time than that of Waldo, they are differently prepared.  Bibles are no longer chained to pulpits.  They are not the soul possessions of the wealthy or entitled.  But for many, the Word seems to have no place in their life.  Iz and her friends seek to change that.

  
Young men and women with particular giftings are being taught to use those for the Glory...  An internship is currently underway for college and post-college students who are gifted athletes.  One of these participants is a quiet, unassuming, three-time WORLD champion in Taekwondo named Vlad.  (I never learned his last name.)  And the speaker, during our visit, was the Executive Vice President of FCA, Dan Britton.  The week of our visit, the interns were hosting a sport camp for local kids. 

Plans are also underfoot to host an internship for artists; possibly as early as this fall.  The idea is that these outstanding athletes/artists have a voice because of their excellence in an area that appeals to young people.  This creates an opening in which truth can be revealed.

On our last day in Bobbio, the clouds cleared.  We were able to see clearly for the first time.  It seemed a fitting metaphor.  Truth has been proclaimed from this little valley for hundreds of years now.  And truth will travel from here again.  Selah. 

If you would like to read more about the journey of our friend Iz, check out her blog, La mia Bella Italia (yep, that's where I got the title).  You may also see more photos from HER Italy (at least my take on it) HERE.  And if you would like to support the important work she is doing in Italy, you can do that HERE. 

Of What Value...A Life?

We laid her body to rest on a cool, clear summer morning.  Blackberries were just beginning to ripen along the fence rows.  Sweet pea blossoms nodded in the breeze.  The whir of insects, and the intermittent gossip of birds, supplied the only sounds.  The cemetery was an island of green in a great field of freshly mown hay, lying in strips, waiting to be gathered into bundles of winter sustenance.

I remember walking down there with my grandmother as a little girl to visit the graves of our forebears and to share stories.  And now she will sleep there in those mountains where she raised her babies...where she rose in the pre-dawn hours and walked with my grandpa to the dairy barn that provided their livelihood...where she carved a garden out of the earth, then preserved its yield so that her family need never be hungry...where her table was always laden with good things, and her chicken and dumplings were the stuff of legend.

She welcomed her grandchildren (and later her great grandchildren) to this world apart.  It was a life of simple elegance.  You could see a million stars in the night sky, and almost as many lightening bugs hovering over the fields.  There were barns, and corn cribs, and old pieces of forgotten road to explore. Here the dogs frequently smelled of skunk, and the water smelled of the iron that was heavy in their well. And when the summer heat was too much, there was a deep swimming hole nearby that was always cold.  Life was slow here.  And good. We got snowbound one Christmas.  It was the best Christmas ever.

"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord...they will rest from their labor, for their deeds will follow them."  Revelation 14:13

I have pondered this verse since the minister shared it at her funeral.  Even though she now abides in the Presence, I know that she has left bits and pieces of herself in us.  As I contemplate her legacy, the deeds that follow, here are some of the traits that live most vividly in my recollection, and I hope live, at some level, in me.

Extravagant Love  She and my grandpa were married 71 years.  That, in itself, would be quite a feat.  The beautiful thing is that they were still crazy about each other.  He used a different voice when he spoke to her than he used with anyone else.  I have seen Grandpa teary before, but never in my life have I heard him sob......until yesterday.  He has lost his sweetheart.

All of us who sat on her porch yesterday, who gathered around grandpa and sang away the afternoon, have been the grateful recipients of that love.  That doesn't mean she was oblivious to our faults.  She never hesitated to offer words of correction or advice when she felt they were warranted.  But she found ways to make each of us feel as though we had some singular value, as though we were special.

Exceptional Vitality  She tilled her garden until she was in her 80s.  Quite frankly, I am in awe of that.  My mom laughed about the fact that when Grandma went along with the sisters on summer vacations they thought she would give them an excuse to move slowly.  They were wrong.  She and my grandpa visited my aunt in Germany when I was a teenager.  And I still have fond memories of a trip our whole family, grandparents included, made to the beach after I was already married.  Hers was a vitality of mind as well.  Always learning, always curious. 

Perhaps this was one of the hardest things about watching as both body and mind betrayed her after her stroke.  We knew the vivacious woman who lived inside.  And even within the confines of a body that no longer did everything she asked it to, those sparks of ebullience, of wit and good humor, still emerged from time to time.

Extraordinary Generosity  The line of mourners stretched across the room, down the hall, and out the door at times.  So many people loved her and came to say so.  She had given of herself to them...encouragement, advice, understanding, sympathy, courage.  Some of them she had taught, others she had fed, driven, served, mentored.  Grandma had a way of seeing people others do not see and drawing them into her loving embrace.  My daughter is very like her in this.  I loved hearing their stories.

"How does someone who lived so simply leave such a hole?" my cousin Amy asked through her tears.  My grandma was not famous.  I'll warrant you have never heard her name.  But every life that intersected hers was made richer by her presence.  I would take that over being famous any day.  She lived a quiet life of ordinary, extraordinary beauty.  And that is profoundly valuable.  I am blessed to have known her.