DRGT / Just Wondering...

Five Minute Friday: Real

2012-02-03T00:29:00.000-08:00

Can you believe it's Friday again? Already? Me, neither. But that's what the calendar is telling me....almost. Still 30 minutes to go here on the west side of the land, but I'm ready to try this five minute things anyhow!

Joining with Lisa-Jo once again over at The Gypsy Mama for her weekly invitation to 'just write.'

"I don't think that it is always necessary to talk about the deepest and most private dimension of who we are, but I think we are called to talk to each other out of it, and just as importantly to listen to each other out of it, to live out of our depths as well as our shallows. We are all of us adolescents, painfully growing and groping our way toward something like true adulthood, and maybe the greatest value we have both to teach and to learn as we go is the capacity to be amazed...which is a power to heal us and bless us and in the end maybe even to transform us into truly human beings at last."

Source: The Clown in the Belfry, by Frederick Buechner

This week's prompt: REAL

GO:

This quote really jumped up and bit me tonight as I was scurrying through the long list of unread emails in my inbox. This was the devotional thought from The Church of the Savior in Washington D.C. for today and it invites serious thinking about some of the very things I've been pondering these last few days.

I wrote about amazement on Monday.

I wrote about 'real' community yesterday.

So to find this quote - and to see Lisa-Jo's prompt - made me wonder: What am I supposed to be seeing/learning from all this synchronicity?

Here are a few (very few) initial responses to that inner query:

That authenticity and vulnerability are beautiful things, that they need to be honored and held lightly, that they need to be protected and valued.

That we don't need to spill every intimate detail of our lives into each and every conversation we ever have, but we do need to be sensitive to the movement of the Spirit within for those times when appropriate and helpful sharing could facilitate healing and health in ourselves or others.

That there is always, always something going on around or within us that could, if we stopped long enough to notice it, cause us to drop that jaw in amazement, gratitude and joy.

That giving the gift of 'real' is a matter of both discretion and trust - ultimately, trust in God's grace to bring healing, and trust in the other person to hold confidence and to offer listening that goes deep.

STOP

This just may be the strangest response to a Lisa-Jo prompt I've ever written! (About one extra minute - and links were added after the time limit.)

Real Life Community

2012-02-01T23:38:00.000-08:00

Joining with Bonnie over at The Faith Barista today and with Emily for her last Imperfect Prose for a while as she and her family move into a challenging new phase of life with two new boys to love.

Life is strange sometimes.

Take this, for example:

I was the pastoral staff person responsible for the

care and maintenance of small groups

in our congregation for 14 years.

Yet, my husband and I found it very hard

to be in a small group ourselves.

We tried twice in the early years.

One a Bible study,

the other a sermon study.

(You see, I developed and suggested all kinds of different formats for groups to try - ours is a congregation of eclectics, different-strokes-for-different-folks kind of mentality - and I always kept a couple of shelves available with study guides/suggestions for anyone wishing to form or join a group.)

But every time we joined one,

it began to fall apart fairly early on.

It was a mystery to me, that whole small groups thing.

Some groups worked so very well that the people in them stayed together for years, sometimes decades.

Problem there was -

they weren't open to anyone new.

Other groups would start off with a bang,

then disappear with a whimper,

despite training for leaders and

regular check-ins to see how things were going.

So it was with a feeling of dread mixed with anxiety that I began my last round of small group organization during that final year of employment at the church.

With a gifted and committed lay leader,

I had planned a marriage retreat in the spring.

Twenty-six couples came away for a weekend of worship, learning, practice, prayer.

It was very, very good.

And from that group, I attempted to form several follow-up groups, choosing to let the groups themselves decide what kind of schedule and format they would follow.

And, very hesitantly,

I offered our own home and hospitality,

without much hope, frankly,

that anything would work.

But God.

Just that.

But God had other ideas.

About four successful groups came together and

stayed together from that project.

And one of those

was the one that meets once a month at our home.

We meet on Sundays, after church, at 1:30 in the afternoon.

We meet for two hours - some couples have kids and two hours is long enough to entrust them to a sitter.

We gather in the yard - in sunny weather -

or in our dining room, when it's cooler.

Someone brings dessert, we provide beverages.

We keep it very, very simple.

We catch up with each other for the first 30 minutes or so. Sometimes that catching up spurs some deep sharing, sometimes it's just a check-in time.

And some weeks, one couple is given

the opportunity to use the Group Bucket -

a small colorful container containing

slips of paper with thought-provoking questions on them. Questions designed to elicit some deeper story-telling.

The couple of the week has the option to refuse the question they draw or to edit the question in any way they like.

And then, we go round the circle.

It.is.amazing.

We have shared about all kinds of things,

most of them have brought us to our knees,

in prayers of thanksgiving or supplication.

And that's the other thing we do each time we gather:

we pray for one another.

This is not a study.

This is a time to share,

sometimes to confess,

often to laugh, to cry, to be honest about where we're struggling,

to ask for prayer for ourselves or our kids or our parents,

depending on where we are in the life cycle.

And that's the other thing that has been really rich about this group.

We are very intentionally inter-generational.

When we began, we had one couple newly married,

two couples of 40+ years,

one of 20 and another of 12.

Some have moved away and we've been open to newcomers.

And each time, the Lord has brought exactly the right people, the right 'demographic,' even!

As I look back over our time in this place,

I can see and understand God's timing

a bit better.

During those earliest years,

it was tough to do community authentically

with people we were just getting to know.

We had come from 20+ year in the same congregation,

where our ties ran deep, deep.

And it was tough to find the lines between my job

and my desire to know and be known

at a deep level.

And the demands of both job and family during most of my employed life

left little space or energy

to build the kind of couple connections we

were used to having.

We each found avenues for service and for worship,

but community?

Not so much.

Somehow, at the end of my pastoral life,

the door opened for this kind of connection.

We were ready for it,

God provided it,

and we are grateful.

But I gotta say - it was a long time coming.

And it's a very fragile thing, this community building.

It needs tending and commitment

and it needs the baptizing presence of the Spirit of God.

Because all of us are a mess, you know?

We're flawed,

we're over-scheduled,

we're over-committed,

we're afraid to let the scars show

for fear we'll be judged or rejected

or, God forbid, 'fixed' in some way.

It is a great gift to feel safe with a small group of fellow strugglers on the way,

one that I do not take for granted after several years without it.

I thank God that we have found such a place of safety.

How about you?

Are you connected to people who love you, warts and all?

People who will pray for you and with you when things get dicey?

People who will let Jesus shine through them,

right into your heart?

Healing Prayer - Holy Ground

2012-01-30T23:28:00.000-08:00

Our text on Sunday was Mark 1:21-34. Check it out.

I love the gospel of Mark.

Quick to the point of brusqueness,

Mark moves things right along,

no meandering,

no wondering.

A lot of "immediately"s and a lot of "amazed"s

are peppered throughout his narrative.

Usually, I enjoy a story that unfolds slowly,

like a beautiful flower,

gradually revealing its hidden beauty and fragrance.

Mark will have none of that.

And on Sunday, I remembered how much I like that,

how thankful I am for Mark's rapid-fire depiction of the jaw-dropping things
Jesus began to do after his immersion in the Jordan River.

Living in the 21st century as we do,
I am struck by how underwhelmed we are a lot of the time.

Maybe that's because we're bombarded with HEADLINES all the time,
most of them horrific.

Maybe that's because finding a good news story

is increasingly tough to do.

Maybe it's a cultural thing.

But maybe it's a church thing, too.

Maybe we have mislaid

our sense of wonder,

that overwhelming well of gratitude and praise

that winds like a shimmering ribbon throughout so much of our Holy Book,
most especially the gospel narratives that

tell us about the life of Jesus.

So let me ask you a question:

When was the last time that you were truly amazed by Jesus?

I mean, stopped in your tracks,

drop to your knees,

dumbstruck,

bleary and teary-eyed

at who Jesus is and what Jesus does?

It's so easy to become slightly blase about the whole thing sometimes.
Oh, yeah, Jesus is a great guy - loves little kids, lives simply, must have been a quiet sorta fella,

don't you think?

Yawn.

But start reading Mark and those yawns

will be stifled pretty darn fast.

The people of Capernaum, that little backwater town in Galilee,
they were stunned.

The man in the synagogue -

did you catch that -

in the synagogue

who had an evil spirit within -

both he and the spirit were slack-faced with wonder

and fear.

Peter's mother-in-law, the one who was too sick to serve,

she was pretty bug-eyed, too.

And then all those townspeople,

the ones who crowded around the front door

of Peter's house that night.

Dumbfounded.

Jubilant.

Amazed.

Here was someone who spoke and taught with authority.

Here was someone whom the powers of evil

knew instinctively was their nemesis.

Someone with whom evil was totally incompatible.

Here was someone who cared about

his friends and their families.

Here was someone who had compassion on an entire town -
and who showed that compassion by 'healing many.'

Our pastor noted that the first step to healing

is to rout out evil.

That's the first little nugget in this narrative -

the spirit of evil is noisy and chaotic.

Jesus is calm and clear:

"Shut up. Get out."

Can we do that to the evils that beset us,

those voices,

temptations,

habits,

thoughts

that fill us with chaos and noise?

It's time to be released from the noise,

to lean into the calm,

to be amazed at the gracious,

authoritative healing power of our God.

Our service ended with a time of anointing,

of coming forward to be blessed,

touched by the oil of grace,

prayed over.

One of my very favorite things ever

in my years of pastoral ministry.

And, at the very last minute,

I was invited to stand in front of the kneeler

and pray for some of the hurting ones who came forward.

While the congregation sang, about a dozen people found their way to the front.

Each one amazed,

each one open,

each one blessed.

And I?

I was the most blessed of all.

For I stood on holy ground,

lifted by the music,

surrounded by the people of God,

amazed at the power of grace

all over again.

Linking with Michelle DeRusha and Jen Ferguson and Jennifer Lee and Ann Voskamp
this Monday night.

Sunset on the Bluffs

2012-01-30T21:44:00.000-08:00

Dick was in Chicago for board meetings on Friday.

Lilly came to play for a couple of hours in the morning,

and Eric picked her up about 11:00.

"Whatcha doing for dinner tonight, Mom?"

"Oh, nothing much. Got some leftover chili..."

"Have you taken your walk yet?"

"Nope."

"Well, why don't you meet us at the bluffs

in Carpinteria and take your walk

with us tonight.

Then we can go out to dinner."

What a grand idea!

Nothing quite like an invitation from your children, right?

So I drove my way through the small neighborhood
which borders the oceanside path.

Their family of four had walked down from their home and were waiting when I drove up.

"Can you believe this view is right here, Mom?

We can walk here.

Isn't that something?"

That's something, all right.

I will admit to liking this view a lot, too.

Two girls in the fading light.

Especially the pink boots.

So we set off to the south.

Mama and Dada and Gracie and Lilly

and me.

We were heading to the seal rookery.

Yes, we have one of those nearby -

not those gigantic guys I wrote about here -

but your normal, everyday sea lions,

many of them heavy with pups.

To get there, we walked along the edge of the bluffs,

through the eucalyptus woods,

by the oil refinery, hidden just north of the train tracks.

The rookery is right on the beach next to the oil company pier.

Great care is taken to be sure this area is protected from undue noise or confusion, so that these mamas can rest, give birth and nurse their young.

The Chumash Indians who used to live in these parts
came to these headlands to build their canoes.

Why?

Because of the copious amounts of black pitch
available right on the beach -

oil -

that precious commodity of 21st century life,

that bane of environmentalism,

oil seeps right through the sand all along this shore.

The off-shore rigs have actually helped keep the beaches accessible, in an oddly ironic meet-up of modern technology and environmental science.

Within the next few weeks, all of these

sausage-like creatures will push out new pups,

and the place will be ringing with the noises

of new life.

Trying out a new camera as the sun sets into the sea.

Checking out the seals and the birds, too.

A greater egret and a brown pelican rest for a moment before heading to their roosts for the night.

The Surfliner heads east and then south to San Diego,

sending out its mournful, evocative cry all along the way.

Even the intrusion of spidery equipment looks

quieter and dreamier in the last of the sunlight.

And a telephoto close-up reveals the striped glory of sky

and sea as night approaches.

I have lived in Santa Barbara for 15 years.

I've been down to my local beach countless times.

I've traveled to other Santa Barbara beaches weekly.

But I'd never been to these bluffs in Carpinteria

until my son suggested I come and see.

I never stop learning from my kids -

and that's exactly as it should be, I think.

It was a lovely walk.

And a great dinner, too.

"From all eternity, Lord, you are.
The waters have lifted up, O Lord,
the waters have lifted up their voice,
the waters have lifted up their thunder.
Greater than the roar of mighty waters,
more glorious than the surgings of the sea,
The LORD is glorious on high.
Truly your decrees are to be trusted.
Holiness is fitting to your house,
O LORD, until the end of time."

Psalm 93:2c-5

Joining with L.L. and Laura for their weekly sign-up - as playdates go, this was a fave.

And as far as a sense of place? Oh yeah, this spot has it in spades.

The Light of the Lord's Face: Still Saturday & Sunday!

2012-01-28T22:25:00.000-08:00

"What can bring us happiness?" many say.

Lift up the light of your face upon us, O LORD.

You have put into my heart a greater joy

than they have from abundance of corn and new wine.

I will lie down in peace and sleep comes at once.

For you alone, LORD, make me dwell in safety.

Psalm 4:7-9, the Grail translation

Joining with Deidra at JumpingTandem and Sandy at SandraHeskaKing (widget promised soon!) for their new(ish) invitations to be still on the weekends.

What a lovely idea.

It's orchid season here on the central coast and the warehouses are full to bustin' with glorious color and shape.

When Life is a Struggle: The THC Book Club

2012-01-28T21:49:00.000-08:00

(The book we are studying, in case you are joining in after the first two installments - which can be found on my blog here for the first segment, covering the introduction and the first 3 chapters, and here, for chapters 4-6, is David Brooks' book, The Social Animal: the Hidden Sources of Love, Character and Achievement. The prime point of discussion begins with the wonderful writing and observations of Laura Boggess over at The High Calling. This was a birthday week for me, so I am very late in contributing to the discussion and, as a disclaimer, I must admit that I have not yet read any of the other blogs, including lovely Laura's. That shall be remedied anon, I promise!)

My parents, on their wedding day and many years later.

Their story shares some slight - accent on the word slight! - similarities to that of Erica and Harold's.*

At last, we meet Erica. The other half of this fascinating and complicated story about the forces that form us into who we are. And I, for one, am delighted to make her acquaintance. Erica comes from a very differently storied environment than does Harold, and reading about how her life unfolds is both startling and intriguing.

These three chapters about her are titled, "Norms," "Self-Control," and "Culture," and they are rich with interesting, and sometimes controversial, information. Erica, you see, comes from what most people would call a highly dysfunctional family system, fathered by a mostly-absent Hispanic father, mothered (occasionally, between bouts with mental illness) by a Chinese-American mother. She and her mother cycle in and out of both poverty-stricken and working class neighborhoods, setting Erica up for what might seem to be a pre-determined future of struggle and failure.

But Brooks chooses to take a different route: he describes how Erica, through the intervention of a counter-cultural high school environment and the loving, though flawed, attention of both of her large, extended families, is able to succeed in ways far beyond most indicators and projected outcomes.

Most intriguing to me in the first of these three chapters were the discussions about "emergent systems" and "Gloomy Prospect" thinking and behavior, the latter often a byproduct of the former. Like our brains, our marriages, our cultures, poverty is an emergent system because the causes and contributors it are many and varied. Trying to pull one causal element out of the mix for some kind of 'fixing' is nearly impossible and just about always doomed to failure.

Instead, new thinking is required; the transformation of personalities and experiences by immersion in a completely different system. That system for Erica is the Academy high school she brazenly pushes her way into. Reading about how this system worked its 'magic' through their diverse and wholistic approach - offering counseling, medical care, new thinking, long hours, high demand and one-on-one interaction with teachers and coaches - was truly eye-opening. As I read about how and why the founders of this particular school succeeded in changing the ethos of their students, thus dramatically improving their chances for breaking free of the inter-generational cycle of poverty in which they were trapped - I found myself reflecting on my own recent professional past. This story underscored for me the importance of presenting the whole gospel to the cultures within which we live and work. The work of the church should never be restricted to gathering conversion-notches on our belts. Instead, we need to be practicing love and living gospel truth by reaching out to people in all areas of their lives, by seeing people as whole persons.

The themes that emerged from the next two chapters also resonated with a lot of what I have been learning and practicing in my own spiritual journey over the last fifteen to twenty years. These are the ideas (and the reflections they invited) that spoke most clearly to me:

1.) the power of anxiety to change the very structure of our brains (perhaps this is why, "Fear not!" is one of the most frequent imperatives in scripture?)

2.) the remarkable interplay between our conscious and unconscious selves

(we are integrated creatures and God meets us in every part of who we are)

3.) the use of the imagination in helping us to learn healthy habits (the value of dreams, imagined outcomes, hopes)

4. Self-control can be nurtured and strengthened by a whole series of small choices that center on the task at hand

(removing the egotistic self from the center of life)

5.) the primary power of how we see things in the decision making process

("those with eyes to see...")

6.) the tremendous impact of the community in which we live on the formation of our individual character

(how much of the story of scripture is centered around this whole idea? the chosen people in the OT, the church in the NT?)

7.) the import of paying attention in developing strong character (almost all contemplative spirituality begins with this truth)

8.) the influence of practice and repetition on the development of talents/skills

(the role of things like scripture memory and regular habits of prayer and study in the spiritual formation process)

9.) the force of positive self-interpretation in determining outcomes

(learning to see ourselves as loved and valued - by God and others - is crucial to growing in faith)

10.) the uniquely human ability and predisposition to teach, to hand on culture, to build "scaffolds that guide future thought."

(the call in Deuteronomy 6 to teach our children, the entire rabbinic structure into which Jesus moved so readily and his call to us to teach what we have learned)

The least successful part of Brooks' presentation came near the end of Chapter 9, Culture. He cites the work of Thomas Sowell who argues that cultures are not only intrinsically different, but also differently successful. For me, this argument only holds if we insist on a western view of 'success.' Having lived for 2 years in an African nation where none of our markers for success (upward mobility, salary, status) are valued, I had to fight the urge to feel superior to a people whose values were very different from those with which I was most familiar. The people of the southern province of Zambia value community, connection, paying attention to the intricacies of conversation, and are deeply committed to tradition. I would not choose to live there forever nor to absorb their cultural values. But I do hesitate to say that mine are better just because they're mine. Some of this rang true to me, but a lot of it was troubling. It cuts to the heart of some of the difficulties of the modern missionary movement - where western culture was imported along with the gospel. Thankfully, that has changed a lot over the last 40 years!

By the end of her college career, after eight years of observation and learning in both high school and college, Erica distilled everything into these three life maxims: 1.) Think in networks; (we are all embedded in multiple ones) 2.) Be the glue; (always work in an environment of high trust and do all you can to be a conduit of it.) (3.) Be an Idea-Space Integrator. (standing at the junction of two ideas can be a place for success and connection - fill any existing gaps in information and/or in trust.)

I look forward to learning how Erica implements these maxims in her future life, both professionally and personally. Seeing how this young woman with seemingly few prospects grew into a determined, self-controlled, committed young adult was fascinating. Surely, sparks of all kinds will fly when she and Harold connect!

*The differences between the home 'cultures' of my parents were not nearly as dramatic as those of Harold and Erica. But...my father was raised by southerners committed to education, had two parents with middle-class jobs (accountant and school teacher, when she worked before she had children), was catered to, showcased and favored by his mother (to the extent that it made him physically sick for one entire school year), was successful academically and musically. My mother was raised by Canadians from the working class (father a binge alcoholic jack-of-all-trades {butcher/gardener} and a mother in retail sales who didn't spend much time at home). Education was not a value in her home, although she did attend college for two years - until the money ran out. The counter-culture for my mom was the church her parents dropped her off at each week - it's where her gifts were affirmed, her primary friendships were formed (many of them lasting 50 years or more) and where she met my dad. The two of them filled the gaps for one another and together, they worked hard to create a happy and healthy home life for me and my brothers. I'm curious to see what Erica and Harold do with their own family, if they have one.

Five Minute Friday: Tender

2012-01-27T16:22:00.000-08:00

Yes, it is Friday once again. Seems like it rolls around a little bit earlier each and every week. Lisa-Jo's invitation still stands and now about 200 folks are signing in each week with their 5 minute, unscripted, unedited posts on the prompt of the day. Just writing, whether it's 'just right' or not. So, in a minute, I'll set the timer and see what comes. Try it - you'll like it!

Prompt this week: TENDER

The sweetest feet on the planet belong to this girl.
Are these the cutest or what??

Go:

She was only about 18 months old,

already talking a blue streak

and often including some of her

newly learned vocabulary

in the 'project' of the moment.

That day, she was playing with two of her

favorite 'dolls' -

a very old, very dingy Cabbage Patch infant,

and a somewhat larger

orange-haired Zoe doll

(you know, the character from Sesame Street)

which she inexplicably insisted was

really Abby

(another character from that life-and-sanity-saving bit of television history).

We'd taken her in the yard for a walk earlier

that day, in a stroller I found somewhere

for a good price,

and it was still sitting in the living room,

waiting to be scooted out of sight

after Lilly went home.

She immediately commandeered it,

placing her two friends neatly into the

seat, adjusting their clothes a little,

making sure each one was comfortable.

From that day on,

Baby and Zoe were in that stroller

every Wednesday and many Fridays.

The day I am remembering happened
the week following her initial discovery of this grand new addition to

her child-care game.

Her daddy dropped her off, as usual,

and, after helping herself to Poppy's breakfast,

checking out a few additional toys

in the baskets we keep for her,

she found her way to the stroller,

not aware that I was watching.

Carefully and tenderly,

she bent over one side.

"You okay?" she asked Baby.

Waiting a beat, as if for an answer,

she walked around to the other side,

leaned in again and said,

"You okay?"

Apparently they were both doing fine.

But I was struck by how very early our children
begin to mimic what we do, what we say.

How many times had her parents, her sister,
her other grandparents, we ourselves - how many times had we leaned over her,

carefully and tenderly, and said,

"You okay, Lil? You doin' okay?"

It's lovely to see that sometimes,

sometimes,

parents and grandparents get it right!

STOP

I got interrupted by a phone call, so this one probably got about 2 extra minutes (and a few edits here and there, too).

Looking Long at the Sea

2012-01-26T21:05:00.000-08:00

I paid attention when he spoke.
"Sit and look at the sea," he said.
"Look a long time.
Look long enough to become
the sea looking back at you.
Then tell me what you see.
I think you'll like it."

So I went to the sea.
I sat in the sun,
high on a bluff.
And I looked long.
I looked wide.
I breathed slow,
and I moved slow,
and I was slow.

And here is what I saw.

Islands, off in the distance,
a low layer of fog
pushed up against them,
like the covers
in a bed just left.

Kelp beds, red and brown,
swaying with the tide,
housing life
deep down,
where I cannot see.
I know it's there,
moving, feeding,
following the rhythm
of the water.

LIGHT,
sprinkled across
the surface of the sea,
light.
Dancing, winking,
blinking, blinding.
I see light.
And I am undone.

Mesmerized by the motion,
caught by the pattern.
One spot, shining bright.
Then two or three more,
then hundreds of them as
the wave reaches its zenith.
See that thread of molten silver
as the water breaks against
the sand!

For just the briefest of moments,
enough for a breath or two,
I know the sea,
I am the sea,
And I see myself as lovely.

Loved.

See for yourself: (and listen, too.)

We're experiencing a winter heat-wave here on the central coast. It was nearly 80 degrees today, and beautifully clear. Somehow, my parking spot was perfectly situated to see these cascades of moving light as I sat and contemplated the magnificence of the sea. I watched for a little over an hour. I was actually anxious about trying this. Generally, I have a book to read, a lunch to eat, a nap to take when I park at the beach. Trying to imagine sitting and looking for a long stretch was hard to do. The actual doing of it? Divinely wonderful, amazing, restful, moving, sacred. I've been told that this experience can be replicated by choosing any natural location that is beautiful to you - your own back yard might work just fine. The point is to sit in contemplation for a long stretch of time - 1 to 2 hours. Finding the time is probably the biggest challenge - but I am now hoping to do this regularly and will make the time somehow.

A Grandfather Pastor? I Think So.

2012-01-25T23:26:00.000-08:00

He walks quietly across the lawn,

laden with fallen palm fronds,

speaking softly to the small person who follows in his wake.

She is busy, looking at flowers,

discovering sour grass,

looking for birds.

They are content together,

the two of them drifting slowly towards the driveway.

She squints a little,

facing into the sunshine.

And then the smile breaks and I hear her laugh.

He has asked her a question -

who knows what it is.

And she laughs and says,

"I no know. I no know, Poppy. I NO KNOW."

Ah, but I do.

I know that this man is a good man,

a faithful one,

and an earnest and committed follower of Jesus.

And he happens to be gifted with children.

He always has been,

especially small ones.

And anytime he's with a toddler,

or a pre-schooler,

or even an elementary student,

he gives them undivided attention.

He delights in their presence,

their growing intelligence and understanding,

their open-heartedness.

And he lives the gospel when he's with them.

As I have reflected on Sunday's sermon,
I have thought a lot about this man.

This good man who happens to be my husband.

We're in the midst of a series called,

"What Time Is It?"

And each week, the topic for the morning follows

that introductory phrase,

"It's Time to...,"

finished this week by "...Repent and Go Fishin'"
We were in Mark 1 on Sunday,

that scene where Jesus sees some men fishing and

challenges them to come away

from their nets for a while.

He calls them to repent, to follow him,

and then...

to go fishing -

fishing for people,

not just sea creatures.

They're in for an adventure, these fishermen,

an adventure that begins with who they are,

and where they are.

And Pastor Jon just nailed it.

There were several lovely points woven through his narrative, but this is the one that stuck with me the most,

the one I've been ruminating on as I watch my husband

in this second year of our shared retirement:

Not one of the people that Jesus called to follow him

was a religious 'professional.'

Every one of them was called

in the context of what they were already doing.

And that's where the adventure began.

Where it begins for each of us.

Nothing is secular,

everywhere has the potential to be sacred space.

We are all called,

every single one of us.

If we follow after the good news of Jesus,

we are called right where we are.

Every job is a mission field,

every person we meet is a gift of grace,

every word we offer has the potential

to be gospel good news for someone, somewhere.

Here is the takeaway quote for me this week:

"Jesus is not calling us to church work;

Jesus is calling us to follow him in our work,

whatever that may be."

So, if you're raising babies and toddlers,

and able to stay at home with them -

there is your good news platform.

If you're in an office, behind a bank window,

standing in front of a classroom,

driving a cab, rising early to bake bread,

serving food in a restaurant,

or moving into the new rhythms of retirement -

wherever you are,

there is where you are called,

there is where YOU are a pastor.

So I watch my husband pastor our granddaughter,

as he has every one of our children and our grandchildren,

as well as many of the children in every church

we have ever attended.

And I thank God that he has heard the call of Jesus

so clearly;

that he has responded so obediently;

that he is living the good news...

right where he is.

How about you?

Joining with Michelle and with Emily and with Bonnie this Wednesday night:

A SLO Day: Spiritual Direction

2012-01-24T23:30:00.000-08:00

SLO stands for San Luis Obispo, a town 115 miles north of my home.

This was our late-lunch view today, as we traveled home again.

One day each month,

I take a road trip.

This particular road trip is not like

the other ones I take.

I'm not going to take care of my mother.

I'm not going to enjoy my children and my grandchildren.

I'm not going on vacation.

Strike that.

I am going on a vacation, of sorts.

I am vacating the usual rhythm of my days

to embrace a different one.

And I find that I am hungry for re-creation as I travel.

I am eager to be addressed as...

me.

Not as wife/mother/grandmother/daughter/

pastor/teacher/friend.

Just me.

Child of God.

Stumbling follower of Jesus.

Seeker after wisdom.

And this is where I go.

A strange looking monastery,

one that used to be the 'dream house'

of a retired dentist,

but was bought by some monks

from New Mexico to be their community home.

The monastery is the long white,

red-tiled house to the left in this shot.

To the right of the drive, is the chapel & bookshop

with a couple of additional bedrooms.

To the left of the drive, below the monastery itself,

is the home of Connie, the oblate who lives on the premises

and assists the brothers.

There are only five or six of them now,

praying the hours,

assisting the people of a dozen parishes

with healing prayer, special masses and spiritual direction.

This is where I meet my spiritual director every month.

The sign says it all:

And this is the view from that house,

in the springtime,

when all the hills are green and the sky is blue.

And this is the man I meet with in that house:

Abbott David.

Spiritual Father to this small band,

and an acclaimed leader in the

charismatic renewal movement

of the Roman Catholic Church.

He is a remarkable man, gifted and humble.

Did I ever tell you how we met?

Now, that's a great story.

"Once upon a time, there was a tired pastor,

full to overflowing with the needs of her congregation,

the struggles in her family.

She had tried direction a couple of times,

with mixed results.

"Not a good fit," was the diagnosis,

whatever that means.

For her, it felt like failure.

And she is not a fan of failure.

So she began to pray about it,

to search for someone.

She even went online, used Google

and found a monastery website.

Not a fancy, bells-and-whistles kind of place,

that website.

And the monastery featured there was over 100 miles away.

But something caught her eye,

her spirit.

And email responses were invited.

So she sent off a note.

"Is there anyone there interested and available

to offer direction to a tired

female pastor,

one who needs listening ears,

wise words,

some guidance along the way?"

That was in July of 2007.

Nothing came back.

Sigh.

So, she got on with life,

a life that was feeling a bit overwhelming

about then.

And she forgot all about that note.

One early morning, in September of the following year,

FOURTEEN MONTHS

after her initial inquiry,

her cell phone rang.

Puzzled at the early hour, she picked it up.

"Abbott David here," a strong, friendly voice declared.

"You wrote about spiritual direction?"

And she burst into laughter.

"Yes," she said. "I did. Over a year ago!"

"Really?" came the response.

"Because I just received this yesterday.

Would you like to meet with me and see if this

might be what you're looking for?"

They set a date for one week later,

she drove up the 101, took the country road out to

his place and sat,

absolutely fascinated and astounded as he told

her his story.

Raised on a farm in Wisconsin,

paid his way through college by playing

trumpet in a dance band,

became a priest,

sent by his order to

study in Rome,

multi-lingual,

specialist in Jungian psychology

and dream analysis.

"If you work with me, you'll keep a dream journal.

And that's what we'll talk through each month."

She was hooked - line, sinker, bobble, lure -

the whole kit and caboodle.

"Thank you, Jesus," she cried to the heavens as she headed south again

at the end of the hour.

Before their next visit,

there was a tragic death in her immediate family.

And before the following visit,

there was a ferocious wildfire in her community,

stripping lifetime memories from many in her congregation.

Within the first year, she herself landed in the hospital, was forced to make a major shift in her own training

program to become a director herself,

and by the second year, she was enrolled in the Abbott's school for spiritual direction certification.

Not sure that she lived happily ever after,

but deeper ever after? That would be a big 'yes.'"

Now I would call that whole tale

a God-thing.

My friend Jennifer might call it "God-Bumps" or a "God-Incidence."

All I can tell you is that my entire spiritual journey

took a decisive turn upward from the moment

I heard that voice on the phone:

"Abbot David here. You wrote....?"

Abbott David leading mass in the monastery chapel.

Today, I had only one dream for the month.

Of my own, that is.

I also shared a tricky one from someone I am directing.

Somehow, this kind, brilliant man

(who has been seriously ill this year)

wove those two together, asked me some penetrating

questions, and helped me think about myself

in some new ways.

"You've spent your whole life relying on your left brain, Diana, your intellect.

It's time to learn to trust your gut, your intuition.

You need to spend long stretches of time just sitting and looking at the ocean.

Do that long enough so that eventually, you find yourself on the other side of the picture - you'll be the ocean, looking back at you.

And take a look at what you see when that happens.

I think you'll like what you find.

Be still long enough to let the beauty in,

to let God in,

to shift inside from reason to intuition.

Learn to trust that,

to know that God meets you there, too.

This is the gift of aging, Diana.

There is gift in all of life."

I sure hope he's right.

I'm counting on it.

Stopping at Costco on our way home this evening,

I looked up from loading the bags into the back of the car and saw this.

My gut said, "Grab that camera, even if it is the little one,

even if the picture won't be sharp."

So I did.

The gift of the present moment.

Right brain all the way.

Joining with Jennifer and her "God-Bumps" meme. And with Ann and Jen, too.

Five Minute Friday: Vivid

2012-01-20T22:34:00.000-08:00

Late again for Lisa-Jo's weekly invite to write it out without worrying about whether it's 'just right' or not. This week's prompt is skittering around this brain and I'm not sure where it's going to land. Hmmmm....

The prompt this week is VIVID

Yup. That's what I thought about all this stuff that happened! Are you kidding me??

GO:

When I was five years old, my mother took me shopping. This was a rare occurrence, as we lived on a school teacher's salary and didn't often shop for anything other than groceries. She took me to a department store, to the toy section and led me gently to the row where the dolls were located.

"Choose anyone you want, honey. It's a special gift, just for you."

So I did. I chose a sweet Betsy-Wetsy doll, the one who wet her diapers if you inserted a small bottle into the perfectly shaped hole in her mouth. I was delighted with my new friend and thanked my mother profusely.

However, just a few short hours later, I was far from grateful. I was terrified. The doll was meant to help me get through a coming tonsillectomy - something I did not understand in the slightest when my parents told me about it.

"We're going to have the doctor cut out those things in your throat that are making you sick all the time, Diana. You're going to feel so much better."

Yeah, right.

The surgery was done in the doctor's office, which included a small area for this 'simple' procedure. I remember the ether mask coming down over my frightened face.

And then I remember waking up to a splotch of bright red blood on my pillow, and anxious whisperings all around me.

"We can't control this bleeding, Mrs. Gold. We must get her to Our Lady of Angels Hospital immediately. Yes, we'll call an ambulance to do it."

The ambulance ride was a big disappointment. They refused to turn the siren on! What kind of an ambulance ride is it if they don't turn on the siren?

I was placed in a crib with high metal bars all round. The nuns glided by, bringing me constant bowls of...cream of rice cereal. Bleargh. And it was impossible to eat anything anyhow because...they staunched the flow of blood by inserting into the back of my throat....two very large...TEABAGS. Yes. Teabags. Apparently tannic acid is a coagulant. Who knew?

I spent one week in that scary place, alone in my crib, with my parents allowed near me only a few short hours each day. And then I had to go and stay with my great aunt for TWO WHOLE WEEKS because my own home was too far from the hospital for after care.

What good is a Betsy-Wetsy doll in that kind of world?

This is my most vivid early memory, an event which shaped my life in profound ways, some of which I am still unwrapping.

But that's for an entirely different kind of post, isn't it??

STOP. (2 minutes extra)

What Makes a Student? The THC Book Club

2012-01-20T21:49:00.000-08:00

Two views of the one room schoolhouse on the LBJ Ranch near Fredricksburg, Texas

At the tender age of 15, I entered the classroom of Arthur Bottaro with fear and trembling. He was short, imposing, intense, demanding and highly intelligent. Mr. Bottaro taught 11th grade Honors English at Glendale High School, and he was perhaps the single most important teacher in my life.

In his class, we were expected to write weekly book reviews and essays and we were to type them on ditto paper. Please remember that I went to high school in the dark ages, before either Xerox or mimeograph machines. I went to school in the era of carbon paper - and dittos. A ditto master consisted of two parts - a front sheet of specially coated typing paper and a back sheet, laden with purple ink. The letters typed on the top sheet would pick up the ink from the back sheet and then the type-covered master would be attached to a drum that was hand-cranked to produce copies from its inked back side.

And why did we have to reproduce our work? Because copies of each and every written assignment were made and distributed to every member of the class. Then we proceeded to rip each others' work to pieces, under the studious, challenging glare of our highly dramatic and talented teacher. I was scared to death about 90% of the time - but that year-long experience is the crucible in which I learned to write clearly, succinctly, honestly and reasonably well.

I thought a lot about Mr. B as I read chapters 3-6 of David Brooks' fascinating book, "The Social Animal," the most recent selection of the Book Club at The High Calling website. This week's assignment takes us through the development of our lead character, Harold, by looking at how the human brain grows, changes and expands from infancy through high school.

From the amazingly high rate of synapses formed during the first three years of life (called synaptogenesis):

"If you want to get a sense of the number of potential connections between the cells in Harold's brain, contemplate this: a mere 60 neurons are capable of making 10(to the 81st power) possible connections with each other. (That's 1 with 81 zeroes after it.) The number of particles in the known universe is about one-tenth of this number."

to the entirely unique pattern those synapses take in each one of our brains, and how repetition forms our "neural networks," which:

"...embody our experiences and in turn guide future action. They contain the unique way each of us carries himself in the world, the way we walk, talk, and react. They are the grooves down which our behavior flows. A brain is a record of a life. The networks of neural connections are the physical manifestation of your habits, personality, and predilections. You are the spiritual entity that emerges out of the material networks in your head."

Just as the ancient Hebrews believed, we are creatures who are all of a piece - head/heart/body/mind/spirit. And though Brooks, in his introduction, indicated that he would not be delving into the spiritual arena in this volume, he does not seem to be able to help himself. We are connected - to the various parts of ourselves - and to each other.

As I hoped he might, Brooks does look at how story-telling is an important part of intellectual and emotional development, noting that many of the stories we imagine in childhood carry over into adulthood, at least in terms of their tone, and in the way we think about life. An interesting contrast was made between 'paradigmatic thinking,' (which is "structured by logic and analysis") and 'mythic mode,' (which contains "another dimension...the dimension of good and evil, sacred and profane. This mythic mode helps people not only tell a story, but make sense of the emotions and moral sensations aroused by the story.") This distinction just may help me understand why my brother and I see the world so differently!

The sections in chapter 5 on parenting were deeply encouraging, underlining that good parenting does not require a graduate degree in psychology but rather depends on connections established early in life and continued at each stage of development. And it depends upon our modeling both resilience and problem-solving. The hackneyed phrase about giving our children both 'roots and wings' seems to have been proven in the social laboratories of our finest universities.

And the last few pages of that chapter reminded us with a powerful, storied example of how 'fearfully and wonderfully' we are made, with layer after layer of complexity that we cannot often see, much less navigate with success. "This is why," Brooks writes, "all biographies are inadequate; they can never capture the inner currents."

But it was in Chapter 6, where we are invited into Harold's high school experience, that we delve most deeply into the powerful impact a courageous and dedicated teacher can have on adolescents. From his analysis of cliques and the intricacy of the socialization process, Brooks underscores the primacy of reading social cues correctly. Our hero possesses supreme skills in the social arena. But in the classroom? He is lost at sea.

Until he encounters Ms. Taylor, a teacher with powerful insights into how the adolescent brain is structured. She also possesses a grand idea for matching students with their particular passion for learning. And here is where Mr. Brooks' writing and research began to resonate with me at a very deep level.

"Of course, Ms. Taylor wanted to impart knowledge, the sort of stuff that shows up on tests But within weeks, students forget 90 percent of the knowledge they learn in class anyway. The only point of being a teacher is to do more than impart facts; it's to shape the way students perceive the world, to help a student absorb the rules of a discipline. The teachers who do that get remembered. She didn't so much teach them as apprentice them...She forced them to make mistakes. The pain of getting things wrong and the effort required to overcome error creates an emotional experience that helps burn things into the mind. She tried to get students to interrogate their own unconscious opinions...She also forced them to work...She pushed. She was willing to be hated. Ms. Taylor's goal was to turn her students into autodidacts. She hoped to give her students a taste of the emotional and sensual pleasure discovery brings - the jolt of pleasure you get when you work hard, suffer a bit, and then something clicks. She hoped her students would become addicted to this process. They would become, thanks to her, self-teachers for the rest of their days."

And this, of course, is the place where I wrote Mr. B's name in the margin of my book. For in addition to a long list of books, we also talked about ideas; we particularly talked about how ideas IN books can change the world. We acted out scenes from Shakespeare and Wilder; we enjoyed earnest discussions about controversial reading material; we learned to take a book apart, by theme/characters/plot and then to put it back together again. We were encouraged, even demanded "to think on paper," as he used to say. Mr. B. was largely responsible for any academic success I enjoyed at UCLA and many years later, at Fuller Theological Seminary. Because Mr. B. gave me permission - and provided the expertise - to read anything and everything on multiple levels at once: analytically, emotionally, intellectually and experientially. And then he taught me how to write about it with clarity and occasionally, on a really good day, to write about it with grace.

He died of a heart attack, very suddenly, about a dozen years after I graduated, when he was about 17 years younger than I am now. And I never went back to say 'thank-you.' So tonight I will say it:

"Thank you, Mr. B., for your careful attention to each one of us and your unique teaching style with all of us together. Teachers like you are a gift to the world and I am forever grateful that you were a teacher of mine."

God Has GOT to Have a Sense of Humor

2012-01-19T23:37:00.000-08:00

Remember that trip we took?

The one on the winding road? Highway One?

You remember. I'm sure you do -

the one with views like this one?

Sun on the water, rocks and sand and surf?

Well, take a closer look at those rocks.

Especially that big one right in the middle of this picture.

Hey, wait a second!

That ain't no rock.

In fact, it's a seal.

A very particular kind of seal,

that hauls out on a very particular beach

called Piedras Blancas.

And you can park-and-view near this very particular beach.

And let me tell you, if you've ever wondered if there is

weird wonderfulness in this world,

this is the viewpoint where every single suspicion is confirmed.

These are elephant seals.

The males can weigh up to 8,800 pounds

and live for 20 years.

Their name comes from that strangely-shaped proboscis -

and their immense size.

And they are amazing to watch.

They spend 80% of their time in the water, diving deeply, eating a whole lot.

They haul out to breed,

to birth,

to rest.

And we get to watch it all.

These mamas are very attentive - for about five months.

Then they waddle off to swim away and the pups are on their own. All of them that survive that first year find their back to their birthing beach again and again.

And if the wrong mama gets near the pup?

Fuggedabout it.

The jig is up.

And sand will fly.

(Actually, the sand flying is just a way to keep cool

and moist as the sun beats down.)

It's an amazing sight.

Weird,

wild,

noisy,

a bit smelly,

and fascinating.

Stop by sometime, especially if you ever get the chance to visit San Simeon,

the Hearst castle on the hill.

This beach is just below there.

These are faces perhaps only a mother could love.

But to tell you the truth,

I think they're kinda cute.

In a strangely alarming sort of way.

And they pretty much convince me that God likes to smile.

Posting early, but will join with Laura's Playdates with God
and L.L's On, In and Around Mondays early next week.

The Primary Verb: FOLLOW

2012-01-19T22:02:00.000-08:00

Maybe it started with ... Abraham,

following the call of a God he barely knew,

a Voice in his ear,

in his heart.

Or maybe it was Jacob?

Finagling his way to a birthright,

following the north-eastern road to find safe harbor,

and discovering the God he never knew,

the One who was in 'this place.'

And then there was Joseph.

And Joseph didn't exactly 'follow,'

or did he?

Forced into Egyptian slavery,

yet ... always hearing,

always listening,

always hoping.

Always following.

Moses followed the Voice, too.

The Israelites followed the Cloud and the Pillar of Fire.

Sometimes.

It was hit and miss most of the time, actually;

the judges, the kings, the priests, the prophets.

Sometimes staying on the path;

sometimes not so much.

The magi followed the star,

Joseph followed the dreams,

Mary followed the promise.

And thirty years later, Jesus went on the road.

And over and over and over again,

he used one single verb:

follow.

Follow me, to be exact.

That verb came first; it came before

believe,

obey,

live,

love.

Follow.

At the heart of discipleship is this word,

this verb which comes from the root 'to hear.'

This is the 'essence of discipleship,'

our pastor said.

And I think he's right.

But here's something else I think:

it's a really, really tough gig.

Because, see, I want to follow.

Yes, I do.

I want to follow Jesus, no matter what,

no matter where.

But then...I see a promising rabbit trail,

that one over there that says,

"Let's Keep It Safe."

Or the one that takes me to a box,

a nice big one,

with square corners,

and clear borders.

Borders that are not terribly permeable.

This box keeps Jesus neatly within my

particular worldview,

removing the uncomfortable bits,

the tough stuff.

Like denying myself,

or taking up that cross.

Or selling all and giving it away.

Or becoming like a child.

If I can just keep Jesus inside,

where we can have tea once a day,

and talk about life -

well, that's the kind of following that seems doable.

There's another route I could choose, too.

In fact, I too often do.

I truly do follow Jesus,

right down the path.

But I sorta stop part way.

I take a pit stop,

right there in that part of the path

where it's just the two of us,

spending quality time together.

And that's the true path,

the good path.

But it isn't the whole path.

When I keep it close like that,

when I make it only about Jesus and me,

that's when I am most apt to

miss the adventure,

to miss the abundant life Jesus promised.

So here's to taking a bigger risk,

to letting go of that overwhelming need to be safe,

to breaking through the edges of the box,

to reaching out

as well as going deep.

Do I want to be a real disciple?

Or not?

Signing on with Michelle, Jennifer, Jennifer, Ann and Emily tonight.

Just an Ordinary Saturday...

2012-01-16T17:24:00.000-08:00

My new friend Joe Bunting has this amazing website called "The Write Practice." On it, he offers advice, writes lovely essays himself, and provides interesting prompts for 15 minutes of reflective writing. This weekend he had a doozy, generating more than 70 comments and lots of interesting response. It's about inspiration vs. perspiration - check it out and play along. I don't do what Joe suggested we do - jot things down in a notebook for future inspiration AND perspiration. But I did the next best thing. I just wrote for 15 minutes about the events of an ordinary Saturday. But....BUT the ending to that ordinary day was something else. And the photos that you see sprinkled throughout these words give only partial testimony to the extraordinariness of the evening. So...an ordinary day...lit by an extraordinary bit of central California coastal glory.

She sits and looks at me across the scones and tea. Tired and sad, the tears begin to gather, the jaw line begins to tense, the fingers curl.

A friend has asked for a meeting, for a listening ear, a word of encouragement.

She waits, trying to control the barrage of emotions that are washing through her as she speaks. Some are triggered by memories older than she is; some come from pieces of her own story, long before these events; some are as fresh as today's coffee, the scent of which is filling this public space.

I try to listen and to speak carefully, gently asking questions when I need to, offering words of comfort, making one or two suggestions.

We spend about 70 minutes together, sipping tea, wiping tears, sharing stories. I bless her at the end of our time. I bless her with the words of Aaron and I hold her hands and cry out silently from deep inside myself; I cry out the ancient words of the blind man by the side of the road, the words of the leper on the way, the words of the woman who grabbed the hem of his garment. I cry out to the God who made us both: Have mercy, Lord. Have mercy.

Then I drive across town. Through the traffic, the road work, the line-up for the downtown farmer's market, the red lights and the green ones. I pull into the underground parking, find a place to park and ride the elevator up to the first floor to look at shoes.

Shoes.

The bane of my existence.

Nothing fits. Nothing is comfortable. Nothing ever works.

But today, I find some fur-lined clogs that are PERFECT. And I stride upstairs, able to walk in something other than Asics running shoes for the first time in several weeks. Triumph!

There's a baby shower this afternoon - a last-minute invitation that was a bit awkward. As the former (now retired) associate pastor, people are often a bit uncertain. Should we or shouldn't we? This mother-in-law decided to go for it and I am happy to be included.

And I love shopping for baby things. Yes, I do. I'm not ashamed to admit it - I love it. So I pick up several adorable tiny things for this little-girl-to-be and leave them to be wrapped while I walk across the third floor to the restaurant.

Lunch. That's exactly what I need! A salad, a tall, cool glass of water, a Cookie Royale. Sigh. I spread out the paperwork I've printed and look at all the possible writing assignments I can sign onto for this month. One deadline is past - that one is shoved aside. One is due within the week. Maybe. One the 31st of this month - definitely. And one the 20th of next month. Absolutely. Now I have a little direction for this writing part of my life. The salad tastes better because I did this small bit of sorting first. And the cookie - well. The best cookie ever baked, that's all there is to it.

But as I look around me, I see something that makes my own eyes well up this winter Saturday. There is a table, just to my right, with three women at it - three generations of women, actually. A white-haired older woman - attractive, convivial, engaged; a brown-haired woman of middle age - listening to the older woman attentively; a 20-something, head moving between the two older women, shifting from one end of the conversation to another, taking a bite of lunch, pausing, pushing back the hair from the side of her face.

That was my life just about 18 months ago. My mother was stronger, saner, her beautiful, vivacious self. I and one or the other of my daughters would sit together with her, enjoying a meal or a story, listening and learning. That part of my life appears to be slipping away, along with large chunks of my mother's mind. I miss that life.

I miss her.

A quick trip home, some furious computer work for my husband, then on to the baby shower. Always nervous entering a room full of women, I load my plate too heavily, find a place in the corner and sit and watch for a while. Again, I am struck by the connections across the generations. The women in this room range from early 20's to late 60's. They have gathered from near and far to offer gifts to a newly forming female child, to shower love on someone they have yet to meet.

So, I forcibly relegate the rising tide of inadequacy, timidity, and wondering-if-I-will-ever-really-belong-anywhere feelings to the room called 'pointless noise' in my brain. Instead, I choose to think about the blessing. The gift that is womanhood, the privilege of being a mother or an aunt or a grandmom, the joys of shared stories, shared experiences, mutual memories. And I offer up a breath of thanks for it all - the chatter, the scent of tea, the savory and the sweet on my plate, the love offerings wrapped in pink.

As I leave, the sun is beginning to color the sky. The mission is nearby, so I swing by there, struck by the clear view of the channel and the outlying islands. I grab my camera, swing into a parking spot and stand on the Old Mission steps just as mass is over. Snap. Snap. Gasp.

Then I race across town, down through the ravine to the state beach. Too late for the most dramatic of the evening's color, the view is still breathtaking. University Point to my right, Santa Cruz Island to my left, the huge expanse of Hendry's Beach in front of me.

And suddenly my ordinary Saturday is anything but. Rose and gold on the water, twinkling lights in the distance, stripes of sky and sea and sand, piled on top of one another like a horizontal crazy quilt, as the crisp winter wind reminds me to breathe out. Glory be.

And Hallelujah.

Added on a couple of photos of the winter flora at the Old Mission, viewed in the fading light - just because I felt like it. Joining these meanderings with Laura B and LL B for their weekly memes at "The Wellspring" and "Seedlings in Stone," respectively. And also with Heather at "The Extraordinary Ordinary," and her invitation to JustWrite:

David Brooks on What Makes Us Human: The THC Book Club

2012-01-13T22:26:00.000-08:00

She's sleepy, and fighting it - hard.

I take her back to the bedroom and open the computer,

dialing up iPhoto so that she can look at 'pichures, pichures.'

As she looks, and identifies each person she knows,
her hands begin to snake their way up my sleeve.

This is a favorite sleep aid - the touch of human skin,
the skin of those who love and care for her.

It's a repetitive behavior pattern that we've wondered about a little,
as parents and grandparents sometimes do.

Now, thanks to some fascinating input
from the latest book selection at the Book Club over at The High Calling,
I have a little more insight into why this works so well.

She has discovered a primary source of self-soothing, has our active, charming, I-won't-sleep-unless-you-absolutely-force-me-to granddaughter.

And then there was touch...As Harry Harlow's famous monkey experiments suggest, babies will forgo food in exchange for skin...They'll do it because physical contact is just as important as nourishment for their neural growth and survival...Human skin has two types of receptors. One type transmits information...[about]...objects. But the other type activates the social parts of the brain. It's a form of body-to-body communication that sets off hormonal and chemical cascades, lowering blood pressure and delivering a sense of transcendent well-being. pg. 33

Smart girl, our soon-to-be-two Lilly.

Rife with tidbits like this, David Brooks' new book, "The Social Animal," is a fascinating, often hilarious, always insightful collection of a lot of different scientific information gathered together in an engaging story-telling format.

Brooks takes the results of research - from biology, neuro-science, psychology, anthropology - and skillfully weaves it together in and around the history of a fictional family. What I am discovering is that the data is 'sticking' with me far better in this format than it would in a scholarly article.
My particular brain seems wired for story.
And I'm guessing we just might find some evidence for that in the data that is still to come in Brooks' collection.

The introduction and first three chapters are filled with the basics of human partnering, relationship-building, baby-making, and knowledge gathering. (There are only a couple of pages dedicated to the actual physical act responsible for babies; there is much more emphasis on developmental issues, all of which are intriguing and often bring an 'aha!' moment of recognition).

What has been most interesting to me thus far is the number of parallels between what hard science is discovering in laboratories and guided studies and what early psychologists - most especially Carl Jung - discovered early in the 20th century by doing lots and lots of talk therapy. These words from page 32 sound an awful lot like what Jung called the 'collective unconscious:'

The truth is, starting even before we are born, we inherit a great river of knowledge, a great flow of patterns coming from many ages and many sources. The information that comes from deep in the evolutionary past, we call genetics. The information revealed thousands of years ago, we call religion. The information passed along from hundreds of years ago, we call culture. The information passed along from decades ago, we call family, and the information offered years, months, days, or hours ago, we call education and advice. But it is all information, and it all flows from the dead through us and to the unborn. The brain is adapted to the river of knowledge and its many currents and tributaries, and it exists as a creature of that river the way a trout exists in a stream. Our thoughts are profoundly molded by this long historic flow, and none of us exists, self-made, in isolation from it.

At the end of this week's assignment, a lovely, and by far, the most poignant small piece of story-telling in this volume, came from Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
So sweetly, these words served to underscore that 'aha!' moment I'd had earlier about our Lilly and her need to be skin-to-skin.

Coleridge's three-year-old son once woke in the night,
begging his mama to come in and touch him.
Perplexed, his mother wondered why.
"I'm not here," the boy cried.
"Touch me, Mother, so that I may be here."

You are here, sweet Lilly.
You are most definitely here.
Thanks be to our good God for that wondrous truth.

Five Minute Friday: Awake...Oh, Really??

2012-01-13T20:41:00.000-08:00

There was this one morning, when I did manage to lunge my way out from under the covers to get my anxious husband to the airport for an early flight. And I was amazingly surprised on this ONE day to note that the sun rises over the ocean on our peculiar peninsula at certain times of the year.
And I got to see the fishing fleet set off for the day.

Yes, it was truly lovely.

No, I did not do it again.

The single most difficult thing I do every day

is get out of bed.

Yes, it's true.

I am not a morning person.

No, I am not.

Not. At. All.

I struggle to see past the end of my nose.

I resist the sunlight, pouring through the transom window.

I resent the cheeriness of my partner for the last 46 years.

He is fully awake,

ready for the day,

bounding out of bed,

full speed ahead.

I am putt-putting in his wake.

If it's a really good day, I get to stay in bed for another hour or so after he has made his wide-awake presence known.

And I am quite happy to let him make his own oatmeal

(which he does every single day),

to vaguely listen to him jostle the dishes in the sink,

to turn over and move right back into dreamland,

thank you very much.

It takes me a while to be fully awake,

even after I'm out of the bed.

I hem and haw and shuffle and mutter

and gradually make my way past the bathroom

into the closet and then out into the daylight.

But I'm not a happy camper.

No, I am not.

By about 10:00 a.m., I'm polite.

By noon, I'm downright gregarious.

And by 9:00 p.m. - I've had a second wind,

ready to read or write or watch TV or engage conversation.

And my partner?

Sawing logs.

Yes, he is.

Sigh.

Back with Lisa-Jo this week for her 5 minute prompt, which today was the word AWAKE.

Check out some of the other contributions - they're always fun to read.
She encourages us to write for 5 minutes flat without worrying about whether it's right or not - no editing of any kind.

But this week, I will admit to some formatting after the 5 minute bell. Other than that - this one was a breeze. It's the story of my life. Even when my kids were little, I struggled with mornings. I got up, I did what I was supposed to do. But I was semi-conscious most of the time. I had a small floral business for a while and that meant I had to get up really early to get to the flower mart on a wedding/party weekend. And I always enjoyed that weird, upside-down world of activity in downtown Los Angeles - at 4:00 a.m.! But I was quite happy to give up my re-sale number after daughter number two got married, nearly 18 years ago.

The Winding Road - Highway 1

2012-01-12T21:30:00.000-08:00

There is a small seaside town about two hours north of where we live; a charming place, filled with home-grown berry pies, antique shops, rolling pine-covered hills and a great arcing bay called Moonstone Beach.

There is a wooden walkway around this bay,

bounded by rope and post,

inhabited by gulls and the occasional sea lion.

The coastline is dramatic here,

rugged and noisy,

colorful and dizzy-making.

The waves crash over rocks,

some of them as high as the 'mountains'

found in the eastern half of this great country of ours.

One of them even has a name: Morro Rock.

Our destination was north of there,

a place called Cambria - pronounced

two ways, depending on which side

of the town you choose to believe:

C-A-as-in-at-MBRIA

or C-A-as-in-came-MBRIA.

It's spelled Cambria.

We took four days away, right after Christmas,

with our oldest daughter, her new husband and her three sons. They rented a house-on-the-hill; we rented a room at the Fogcatcher Inn. Good choice. The walkway pictured above was just cross the parking lot.

One of those four days, we all took a drive,

up Highway One toward Big Sur.

If you've never done this, I cannot encourage you strongly enough to

TAKE ANY OPPORTUNITY YOU FIND to do so.

Especially if the weather is clear.

It's winding and wild, breathtakingly beautiful,

and typically California.

Much more California than either

Los Angeles or San Francisco.

Those cities are magical in their own unique ways, but this?

This is the real deal, the pristine beauty

of desert mountains hugging the sea,

wildflowers, strange sea creatures

(for another post - amazing),

and views up the wazoo.

Lisa packed us a wonderful picnic lunch and we took it up above the highway, on the road to the New Camaldoli Hermitage Retreat Center (I posted a couple of pictures from that glorious place in this post.)

That ribbon of road is the famous One - stretching for 70 miles of steep turns and high cliffs between Morro Bay and Carmel. We went about 2/3 of the way up. (The retreat center is near the beginning of the Big Sur Wilderness Area.)

We took a few quiet moments to explore the chapel building after we ate our lunch and the light was just right to the north, making interesting patterns on the walls.

The wild pampas grass was mostly sticks,

except for this one bend in the road,

where we caught a glimpse of the furry fronds

waving at us as we followed the curve.

The rock formations at the inlet to Julia Pfeiffer State Park are unusually captivating, filling pictorial calendars across the state.

We've been blessed in our lifetime to travel a number of coastal highways -

The Garden Route in South Africa,

the Cinque Terre in Italy,

the cliffs of Dover and Cornwall and Devon in England,

the Burren in Ireland

(and the fingered south west coast on that magical island).

And I've got to say that this is a match for any of those

in natural beauty and heart-stopping drama.

We came back down the road as the sun began to set,

following its path for miles and miles.

It was a restful time, rich in beauty and good company.

After the busyness of the holiday season,

and before the rigors of my mother's move to assisted living,

these four days provided respite, refreshment, re-connection.

I am grateful beyond words to live where I do,

to have easy access to places like this,

to have a husband and family who tolerate my excessive ooh-ing and ahh-ing over every rock/stick/shell/bird/cloud or wave and who actually encourage me to take more pictures.

Even in the middle of messiness, pain and loss,

life is good. God is good. And Beauty soothes every bump.

Sharing with L.L. and Laura B tonight, because they are so kind as to invite us to do so every single week:

It's Time...the Water Is Ready

2012-01-11T21:11:00.000-08:00

What is it about water?

The Book we read is literally swimming in it.

The waters of chaos,

out of which the Lord God creates.

Waters flooding the earth,

to wash it clean from the evil wrought by humankind.

Rebekah watering the camels of a traveling servant,

leading to the foundation of the people of Israel.

River water as the salvation for the baby-in-the-ark,

the one who grew up to become

the bearer of the rod,

the rod that brought water to its feet

in the parting of the Sea of Reeds,

and brought water from the rock

for a thirsty, complaining people.

The Promised Land,

a place fed by streams and

pools and springs abundant.

The Jordan River -

the headwaters into which the people of Israel

carry the Ark of the Covenant,

and stack the stones of remembrance.

The Jordan -

through which and by which the

Baptizer offers his call to repentance

and shouts out the promise of One Who Is to Come.

The Jordan -

into which steps Jesus, the Messiah,

submitting himself to the same waters of repentance

as every other respondent to John's call.

The Baptism of Our Lord -

one of the layered meanings and celebrations

marked with the name Epiphany:

revelation.

The light dawns,

the promise is fulfilled,

God comes to the help of God's people.

Descending under the flow,

rising up through the surface,

glistening in the afternoon sun,

shaking the drops from hair and beard,

gasping for air, arms outstretched,

the Savior, our Immanuel, hears a voice

and the dove descends.

It is time.

No trumpets, no angels, no drum roll.

A simple walk from the shore to the river.

And the mission is launched.

What does Jesus hear as he steps out of the crowd,

out of obscurity,

out of preparation time

into the arena, ready for the main event?

What does he hear?

And what do we need to hear as well?

Three things - three things as vitally important

as the water itself to the life he - and we - are to lead:

He hears who he is.

He hears he is loved.

He hears he is pleasing.

Because of Jesus, we also have:

a new identity;

a powerful and life-changing relationship of love;

a deep-seated knowledge that

God is pleased with us,

before we do one single thing.

Do we get that??

God is pleased with us.

Because of Jesus.

And it is in the water,

the waters of our own baptism,

that we know these things to be true.

Water.

Simple. Ordinary.

Tangible. Irreplaceable.

And absolutely vital.

The Living Water calls us to reflect who he is,

he calls us to be life,

to share live,

to live life

as if Jesus himself is the well.

Oh, how deeply can I draw from this Well as 2012 unfolds?

How widely can I spray this essence of life around me?

What time is it for me?

What time is it for you?

I am indebted to Pastor Don Johnson and the worship team at Montecito Covenant Church for most of the ideas contained in this reflection and most particularly for the beauty of a worship service in which we are given the precious opportunity to renew our baptismal vows. Swishing our hands in the waters of the font, singing, "All Who Are Thirsty," every New Year, we remember again WHO WE ARE. Thanks be to God.

Joining with lots of friends today as I've been away from this blog for over a week, traveling to get my mom moved and then re-settling at home with a too-full calendar. So tonight, I'm fixin' to join with Michelle, Jen, Emily (if she's open for business again), Ann, Jennifer & Bonnie. Each of these lovely sites has great writing going on - check them out.

The Power of a Good Romance

2012-01-02T15:47:00.000-08:00

A good story well-told is a powerful thing. Story can bypass the regular channels of intellect and observation, cutting to the chase of emotional and spiritual connection; it can provide beauty, relief, even epiphany. Because story, like all good art, can touch the soul as well as engage the mind. Story can speak of things eternal - like hope and joy and love. And the best story-telling can do all of that in and through the nitty-gritty of real life, never ignoring or denying the pain, suffering, failure and struggle that mark our days on planet earth.

I began to understand these truths most deeply while our son-in-law was in the midst of an extremely difficult journey that led to his death three years ago. Watching him suffer, and watching our daughter and their three sons share in that pain, there were days when I simply could not imagine how life could ever again be good and rich. And on those days, I turned to story to help me - to remember that suffering is not all there is, that death does not have the final answer, that the power of Love is stronger than anything else in this life.

And the story-telling that spoke most clearly into that time of darkness was romance. Good romance, not dimestore fantasy. I read and/or watched everything that Jane Austen ever wrote and the BBC ever produced from that writing. I lost myself for a few minutes or a few hours; I let the harsher realities of life sit in the background for a little while. And I allowed myself to enter into those stories of trial and error, of personalities rubbing against each other in misunderstanding and false expectation. And most especially, I celebrated the resolution that always came at the end, when clarity and sanity were recovered and Mr. Darcy or Edward Ferrar or Mr. Knightley spoke their hearts and found reward as Elizabeth Bennett and Elinor Dashwood and Emma Woodhouse happily said, 'Yes.'

Now I add Michael Kent to the list. And Sarah Hughes. "The Dancing Priest," by Glynn Young, is a romance for today, a tale very well-told indeed, and a beautifully wrought reminder that, "God is not dead nor doth he sleep." I suppose this story is to be categorized as 'Christian fiction.' But for me, this book far out-classes most of what I've read in that genre. (Admittedly, my sample is small.) It does have specific references to conversion (for this is a love story on multiple levels) and uses some of the lingo of the evangelical world here and there. But basically, this is a rousing good romance, period. A great read for just about anyone, Christian or not. A great story that is told through characters who are complex and interesting, and settings that vary widely. The lead players are each loaded with back-story and fascinating friends and family, all of whom add depth without distraction.

I had the wonderful experience of reading this story aloud as my husband and I took long car trips over the last few weeks. We were both hooked immediately and looked forward to turning on the Kindle whenever we set the cruise control. If I had to guess, I'd say that at least a dozen times, I had to stop reading for a moment to control tears. The story is that gripping, that real.

And here's my armchair analysis of why that happened: this story, this romance, is a brilliant reflection of the Great Love Story that centers our universe, our life. For that's what the Christian faith surely is - the greatest love story ever told. And those of us who follow after Jesus find ourselves - even in the middle of our messiness or our pain - we find ourselves caught in the grip of a rousing good romance: the God of the Universe, the One who took the downward journey to Bethlehem, who walks with us through the good and the bad, the beautiful and the messed-up - that God of very God waits for each of us to say, 'Yes.'

"The Dancing Priest," captures the imagination and the heart; it tells a beautiful, complex story that is just plain fun to read. At the same time, this very particular story mirrors for us The Story that claims and centers us as human persons. We who are created in the image of God, who are called into relationship, who are wooed and won, restored and rescued by the lover of our souls. Read it - I promise you, this romance will grab you and not let go.

Picture legend:
Top: The California coastline, just north of Julia Pfeiffer State Park on Highway One, surely one of the most romantic views in the entire world.

Middle: The chapel at the New Camaldoli Hermitage, two miles above highway one near Lucia, CA.

Bottom: the reflection of the 'trinitarian chandelier' in the same chapel, shining up from the stone floor.

One Word: Waiting

2012-01-01T23:58:00.000-08:00

Joining the crowd growing at Alece's place - choosing one word for 2012 - a word that will shape decisions, influence thinking, guide us into God's presence with greater intentionality during the year ahead. And also joining with Bonnie over at The Faith Barista for her invitation at the Thursday jam session.

This choice was a tough one for me, primarily because I am by nature not a patient person. But here it is:

WAITING

Not because I want to.

Heaven knows I'm not good at it.

But because it is absolutely

central

to what it means to be

a follower after Jesus,

one who is invited

into the fellowship of

our Trinitarian God.

So.

I am waiting.

Waiting with hope.

With expectancy.

With trust.

At least that's what I'm asking for

as I wait.

That I might be able to say with Simeon,

"NOW, O Lord, let your servant depart in peace.

For my eyes have seen your salvation..."

Not that I'm in a great big hurry to go anywhere,

not even to heaven,

truth be told.

But because the beauty of Simeon's character

just shimmers through every word of that verse in Luke 2.

I'd like to shine like that.

And I'm guessing that learning about

waiting

is how to pick up a glimmer or two,

here and there.

I have no clue how God will use this word,

this experience,

to form me,

to buff up the shine,

to build in me a clearer reflection

of the LIGHT.

But I'm willing to lean into it

with all I've got.

To consistently make an effort to take my hands off

the reins of my life,

and the lives of the people I love,

and to trust that all will be well.

Even if it doesn't turn out like I expect.

Even if it doesn't turn out like I hope.

Even if it doesn't turn out at all.

Because I think that's a big part of trust, don't you?

Turning our hands upward,

empty,

and saying,

"Thy will be done.

Thy will be done."

And I don't think that can happen if I am

striving,

pushing,

driving,

insisting,

worrying,

obsessing,

fretting,

otherwise trying to control things

over which I truly have no power.

I do think it might happen if I can learn more about

waiting.

So that's my word for 2012.

Every three months or so, I'll try and post here about how it's going, what I'm learning, where Life is taking me.

If you need me,

I'll be here.

Waiting.

Five Minute Friday: Open

2011-12-30T23:24:00.000-08:00

It's the last Friday of 2011. Wow, that year just sorta flew by, didn't it? We've been on a brief vacation this week, enjoying the beauty of the Cambria coastline in central CA with our older daughter and her family. I've tried to keep up with reading but am failing miserably. And writing? Fuggedabout it. But this favorite 5 minute prompt? I'll give it a try as Friday winds down. Check out Lisa-Jo's collection every Friday at http://thegypsymama.com/ And if you feel like joining in, go for it!

Driving north on Highway 1 this week, we were stopped for about 20 minutes due to single lane driving as a new bridge and tunnel are being constructed. I loved the way the bridge we landed on opened up to the view and yet cast its own shadows that were interesting, even beautiful to behold. I'd like my life to be open to the view, the heavenly view! And I love looking for shadows of heaven in the here and now

This week's prompt:

OPEN

GO:

"Open my eyes, that I may see,

glimpses of truth thou hast for me;
place in my hands the wonderful key
that shall unclasp and set me free.
Silently now I wait for thee,
ready, my God, thy will to see.
Open my eyes, illumine me, Spirit divine!

Open my ears, that I may hear,

voices of truth thou sendest clear;
and while the wavenotes fall on my ear,
everything false will disappear.
Chorus

Open my mouth, and let me bear
gladly the warm truth everywhere;
open my heart and let me prepare
love with thy children thus to share."*
Chorus

An old song,
filled with strange language,
yet speaking truth still.
This is what weaves its way
through my mind
and my heart
as I walk through this day,
wondering how to respond
to this Friday's prompt.

The song is a prayer,
a prayer I echo -
sometimes hesitantly,
sometimes even fearfully,
but echo it, I do.

OPEN:
Eyes.
Ears.
Mouth.

And I would add to these:
Hands.
Arms.
Home.
Calendar.
Heart.
Life.

A new year comes, Lord.
A new year.
May I receive it
with
grace and gratitude,
with
hope and anticipation,
with
quietness and strength.

Open me right up.
Open.

STOP

*This hymn was written by Clara H. Scott in 1895. The text comes from Psalm 119:18 - "Open my eyes that I may behold wondrous things out of your law."