November 2015

                                       November 2015

         A black and white bird wings his way down our hillside, the perfection of his wing tips as he spreads them and  the brilliant white of his little cloak making me stop and stare. So much beauty lavished on this one small, fearless bird; considered a beggar, but clothed as a king.          
         He lights on the bare branch of a    quaking aspen, the contrast of his dark and light feathers perfectly suiting this crisp, frosted morning. He pauses for a moment and then plunges straight down, wings close to his body, then spreading them wide flashes down the hill through the trees.
      How can  something so magnificent  be so common? The abundance of beauty on this good earth fills me with awe for the One who crafted it with such care.    

                               

      When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained;

 What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?

For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour.

Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet.

Psalm 8:3-6

               

July 26 2015

             
                                   
                                        Sunday, July 26 2015

      I'm looking out at the storm clouds massed over the lake, breaking in wave upon silvery wave, the golden light of the sun waiting to break through while it gilds the edges and lightens the shadows.  The lake is touched by magic, light and shade dappling it like a mirror. Wild and peaceful at the same time, just like my soul.                                                                                                        
"I don't think I'll ever feel safe again,"  
  
"Why should you? This is enemy territory. This isn't Home."        

  Things are coming clear to me, but the more I see the less I know, and the more I believe the more I feel, while these growing pains ache with abandon. Eleanor falls asleep in my arms, her lips slightly parted and her breathing heavy and sweet.

   Light and dark together, and the Light has already fought for me, and won. Lord,  I thank you, you kind, gentle, strong and fierce lover of my soul.

                                                 

  He that loveth his life shall lose it; and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal.      

John 12:25

   
    There was a silver gate too thin and ridged to be comfortable to sit on, and a  red road, redder with rain, like a dividing line between the lush pastureland above and the dull fields of old cane grass below.   

     
    Two black and white dogs to take on walks up that road; Heidi and Misty, we called them- Heidi after the little girl in the Alps, and Misty because we liked the name.   They pulled on their leashes, straining to escape and be off, running free after the cows in the fields- they were born for such joy, but untrained as they were their longings went unfulfilled unless one of them could slip her leash and escape. I don't think I enjoyed those walks like I could have, but the memories of those times are sharper and more vivid than many of the things I've done since for amusement's sake alone.

     A horse named Copper, large boned but sweet,  consented to being climbed on and
played with, saddle or no saddle, but riding him was a slow affair and you would have to stir him up soundly to convince him to achieve even a mild canter. 

      There are pictures in photo albums and in my mind of little brothers, wearing mismatched slippers at least four sizes too big for them and carrying chickens around like kittens or lap dogs. The grass grew long in the back yard, and so we would fence it in with electric fences and let the sheep graze it low. Victoria would feed them oats and molasses from a silver bowl, her big blue eyes under her straight blonde bangs as beautiful then as they are now.   


     What gracious beauty in the midst of chaos. What beautiful precious faces and unstained minds,  what moments of delight, high in the ironwood pines as they tossed like waves in the sea.

 The glory of this latter house shall be greater than of the former, saith the Lord of hosts: and in this place will I give peace, saith the Lord of hosts.

    Haggai 2:9

June 7, 2015

                                                      June 7, 2015

           My grandfather is a story-teller. I've  listened to his stories many times without even hearing them. In my mind, he's always been old; a grandfather long before I was born.  Sitting in his living room, quiet and awkward, I've waited for him to stop talking. Let me get a word in edgewise, I've thought to myself. Let me speak. I've resented his voice; his precedence.

       The last time I saw him, he told a new story; new to me perhaps, and maybe it felt old to him but he told it as concisely and clearly as if it had happened to him yesterday. He spoke of his graduation from officer's training, and the sky-blue car he drove through a small town, down a long curving stretch of road. "Sky-blue", he called it several times. My favorite color. I love to see it everywhere, in the things I touch every day; the things I wear; the things my children wear. I look into his eyes, and it's like I've seen them for the first time.  Sky blue.

     A picture forms in my mind, and I see him as a young man, in the dark blue of his new lieutenant ' s uniform, his four hundred percent increase in pay resting luxuriously in his mind; young and powerful behind the wheel of his brand- new blue car, his eyes on the road ahead. His same eyes, his same mind- this same man that I've never seen before, and never known. His blood in my veins; his same desire to be heard. How have I not noticed we have the same eyes?

     He sits in a tall chair, straight-backed, and he could still be wearing a uniform, the way every button is precisely buttoned. When I feel miserable I lounge in my pajamas all day, my consideration for others far outweighed by my own desire for comfort. I respect his nicely-buttoned shirt. I respect his resolution in the face of pain.

       I've never tried to imagine his house without him; he seemed

permanent, immovable; as firmly planted as the soaring spruce tree in the back yard. "I think we may be going to lose that tree," my grandmother tells me. It shakes me.   It's been there my whole life, just like they have.   I grasp at something to hold on to, and all I have is what I know and believe to be true: This world, no matter how beautiful, no matter how painful, isn't all we have.  It can't be.

    "You know what, Mother? Today is actually night. When we die; that's when we will really be awake."    Chloe's eyes looking into mine are dark, but she has inherited her great-grandfather's passion for books and for stories, and in her eyes is ageless wisdom. "You must become like a child",  the Master said. I know I must.

 Grandfather; I'll see you in the Morning.

May 2015

                            

                                                     
                                                         5.16.15

      I feel as fragile and translucent as a  shell, with this new life inside me. It is as small as a pearl, delicate,  precious- and I'm like a  shell, holding it. Two lives together,  and my  whole year, my whole life, is changing shape to fit this new little one.      

       Sickness comes in waves, ebbing and flowing throughout the days and weeks. I want to hold this child with grace and patience,  like my Father has held me.    I've known the sensation of being held gently and firmly in His hand;  suspended,         transient as the breath of life. Precious to Him, amid this dim and perilous world.

 If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;

   Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.

   If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me.

   Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.
 Psalm 139: 9-12

May 22, 2015

                                              May 22, 2015

       I always felt indifferent to the person of Christ. I felt that he wouldn't like me very much. I identified with the Pharisees,  whom he was harsh with, but I knew that even they would have shunned me for not fulfilling their requirements. I didn't feel dirty enough to be grouped with the harlots and tax collectors that flocked to him. My sins seemed too small to truly bother about.

         Why did his death matter to me? As the Son of God, didn't he know everything, and by dying for everyone in one fell swoop, wasn't it sort of a package deal, my small bundle of sins just one drop in an enormous bucket of others?        

                                                           

      The pride and hypocrisy  of my own immature thinking makes me reel; professing myself wise,  I was as foolish as everyone I looked down on, and more. Pride insulated me;  it was like a thick, comfortable blanket

between me and everything good and beautiful like humility, compassion, mercy, and righteous judgment. As long as I felt a little bit better than someone else, I thought I was doing okay. And I could always,  always,  find someone to look down on. Someone to despise as a little bit less. 

        It wasn't until some carefully constructed and I thought well-tended walls in my own life fell down that I started to see my own need for redemption. I remember lying in bed, trembling, knowing that what I had on my own wasn't good enough anymore.     God as my Father become real to me, and Jesus as my brother, a man who never sinned against me or anyone,  an innocent, kind man who died to save me.  

      Feeling alone, I tried to picture Christ standing next to me in the memories and flashbacks that pulsated through my mind. I couldn't see Him, and I remember panicking,

my chest heaving with desperate, empty moans. "Where were you? Where were you when this happened?"

Truth came to me, quiet and still;  "I was dying."                        

     This man, who loved sinners, who forgave their sins and selflessly spent himself for others, died in the midst of every sin I've ever committed, and every sin someone else has ever committed against me. His own Father turned His face from his Son, as he died on a cross for me. Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthanei?  My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

                                                              

          He felt every fear and waking nightmare of shame, and He alone has walked uprightly.     I know that now I  must learn to live the way he died; surrendered to the will of our Father.

Arise, shine;

For your light has come!

And the glory of the Lord is risen upon you.

For behold, the darkness shall cover the earth,

And deep darkness the people;

But the Lord will arise over you,

And His glory will be seen upon you.

Isaiah 60 1-2 

May 2015

"Children are the wishing people," Elysia says. I pause, thinking how true this is. I want that.  I want to be one of the Wishing People.