9.25.23

 

                               S E P T E M B E R  25, 2023

           The hills around our house are flame- colored again, that aching color that is so hauntingly beautiful. Autumn here is such a brief season... the fireweed turns to flame, the currant and rosebushes next, and then from every hill and valley the trees are engulfed in the rich colors of fall. The leaves descend softly like golden confetti, the mornings are crisp and cool and a rolling, roiling fog covers the lake every clear dawn. So beautiful, and yet so bittersweet. I've never been good at goodbyes, and autumn spells death to me in a way that December 31 never does. The year is wrapping up. I am no farmer and my thumbs are not even slightly tinged with green, but Autumn is a harvest time nonetheless. We bring in sheaves of memories, things done and undone. Summer folds up, and the barefoot freedoms end. School begins, and I'm the teacher; how did this happen? Where has the summer gone? Where has the year gone? Where has my own childhood and youth gone? Fleeting, fleeting, mist and vapors! It is a time of taking stock, of seeing all that has been accomplished, and what has not yet even begun. All of my inadequacies stare me in the face, my shortcomings, my lack of spiritual growth, emotional self-control and gentleness seem but a distant dream. Lord, lead me! For I know not the way on my own. My steps falter and stumble. My eyes see so dimly, just haze and fog and loss and goodbyes.  Let the summer die in peace, with no regrets. Bring us through the darkness, into your most glorious light. Spring will come again, and end again! Better is one day in Your courts, than thousands elsewhere. Speak to me, gentle Father, honest Brother, kindest Friend. You are my all in all. 

Nevertheless the foundation of God standeth sure, having this seal, The Lord knoweth them that are his. And, Let every one that nameth the name of Christ depart from iniquity.

2 Timothy 2: 19

4.16.22

       I lie here in this golden room, the melting honey sunshine, Spring-bright, pouring over every sill. I lie here surrounded by my offspring, from the smallest in my womb, to the tallest, my firstborn- I only lie here because someone else gave up their freedom for me. My father, tenth child, never should have been born, culturally, economically, perhaps even rationally. But had not my grandmother laid herself on a bed of pain and birthed him, I would not lie here today. Had not my mother chosen Love over Comfort, my children would not crowd around my head, blessings each of them, even as they crowd and overwhelm me. Oh God, be it unto me, thy handmaid! Make me thy more willing servant. Make me thy more trusting slave. And the sun pours in, and the sky is large. What a good earth the Father has made for those who have the eyes to see. Father, give me those eyes. 

7.28.21

             

      

        I remember my Aunt Jeanie shortly before she died, sitting on the edge of her bed,  telling me a story about when she was young. Her family would have pasta with butter and cheese for dinner, and she remembered with happiness the pleasantness of happening upon a bite that had both butter and cheese.  Her accent sounded strangely European after her stroke, with a slight lisp on some of her words. I enjoyed listening to her speak,  and this was a good memory for her;  I could see her vividly in my mind's eye, young and hungry and savoring that pasta. There is a lump in my own throat as I remember her.

    One of my youngest aunts, and both of us hot tempered and immature, I remember several difficult encounters throughout the years. Once when I was seventeen she interjected one too many critical comments into an argument I was having with my mother, and I quickly swore at her, and she, just as quickly, threw a piece of cake at my head. We both deserved what we got, and I wish I could say we both matured and never fought again, but that wouldn't be true. I still swear when provoked and she was still throwing things on her deathbed. How I loved her! How I long to see her again. How happy I am that she is no longer sitting on the edge of that bed, thinking with sadness or longing over her life and weighing the years and always coming up short. Her God took her home to be with Him, to be his Beloved.. and I can ask no more than that for myself. Neither of us worthy, but both of us Chosen.. and we will be together, forever, in the new light of the Dawn.  

           Jeanie, I miss you. 

Through the tender mercy of our God,

With which the Dayspring from on high has visited us;

To give light to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death,

To guide our feet into the way of peace.

LUKE 1. 78-79

3.27.21

 

             At fifteen I worked for a little while for a florist at a flower shop at one of the sprawling, cream-colored hotels on the Kohala coast. 

    I remember the arrival of the fresh flowers for the day, their wet leaves and broken stems scattered on the floor as they were unpacked, trimmed, and placed upright in containers of water; the smell of them, their soft petals cool in my hands. Music of every beat and shade  pulsed as the flowers were neatly and cleverly arranged by the young florist's capable fingers. Full trolleys of fresh flowers were wheeled along the halls to decorate the main lobby and for each event happening that day. The surf pounded under a blue sky, always a blue sky, and the hotel grass was short and spiky beside the tidy pathways, the aching hot sand shining in the sun.  Torches were lit in the quick dusk at the end of every day, and I wish I had the chance of living at least one of them over again, to fully savor being young, to rest in my restlessness and to enjoy each moment as it burned out swiftly against eternity. 

           Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them; While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain.....

       Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.  Ecclesiastes 12: 1-2 and 6-7 

No Greater Love

 

                                                                    2.15.21

          

        Christian lies beside me, his soft body warm in the darkness, his small breathing the only sound to break the stillness. Yet another blessing to add to the list- yet another gift, priceless, timeless, and given as all the others were, through pain and sorrow and suffering. But what a gift, what richness, what a treasure beyond measure he is! Eighth child, fourth son- numbers do not diminish one jot of his uniqueness or the special space he inhabits in our family. Was he a planned child? Yes, most certainly, but not of my or his father's planning. None of them have been, but the evidence of a greater Plan looks out of each pair of dark eyes. God has been at work here; crafting with such subtle nuance, such boldness, such grace, even as I have wept and trembled and shaken in fear of yet another pregnancy, yet another foray into a 40 week wilderness. And for what does he work? For my earthly pleasure? For my pride? No, for his own glory, and what a gory glory it is, the way he rides roughshod over my preferences, over my comfort, over my fears! And yet, is not this what he promised me long ago? Because I live, you also will live. He lived, he feared, he sorrowed, he wept in a dark garden and whispered, "Father, let this cup pass from me". How human he was! And yet immediately- Not my will, but Thine be done. How long it takes me to echo that swift and humble submission. So often it takes me the full 40 weeks, the last sleepless night, the final bed of agony and I'm staring into those dark eyes again and I can finally say, Not my will, but Thine, be done. Never my will, Lord, for it is shortsighted and selfish, concerned only for my comfort and the praise of man. Your will, Lord, your good and perfect will. Be it unto me, thy handmaid, and may I have that greater, more perfect, love. 

Greater love hath no man than this, than he who lays down his life for his friend.  John 15.13

 

Prayer for a H U S B A N D

 Prayer for a H U S B A N D 

This man for me that thou
Hast given.
A good gift bought by blood, and shriven.
Bless his rest
And bless his waking.
Bless his giving
And his taking.
Him thy servant
Thou his good,
Bless him in his servanthood.
In your image
Wast he created,
Bless him as Thou art celebrated.
Thou O Father
Him thy son,
Bless through him now everyone. 

A U T U M N 2020

                                                    A U T U M N  2020

      I love the ocean. The vastness, the ever- changing color, the restless crashing of the waves as countless thousands of gallons of water are weighed and measured upon the sands. The birds skittering on the beach and dipping and wheeling above the waves. A lone whale, cavorting just within view, making us feel like all of creation was made to be enjoyed.
Which it was. 

   What a heartbreak for the Father to see the things we've done to it, and to ourselves.
   While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. 

While we were yet sinners? I'm still a sinner. All of the heinous and most grievous sins I've committed against both God and man were committed after accepting Christ. How can he have been so gracious, and continue in it? How can he have seen the future of that seven year old girl and yet still welcomed me with open arms? How can he keep taking me back when I hardly feel him before I turn away again? What sort of a God is this... to be so humble? 

   The moon, a golden glowing apricot moon rises over the dark pines, the wind tossing them back and forth like shadows... and the sea thunders. 

Thus far shall you come, and no farther,
and here shall your proud waves be stayed.

O God, you are my God.