It happened the first night Amy (Bob's youngest) visited us here in Holland. She hugged and kissed us goodnight and headed down the hall to bed, but then she stopped. She turned around and said to me, "You didn't tell me to have 'a blessed rest.' You always tell me to have 'a blessed rest' before I go to bed."
My "identical best friend" (a description given to us by her husband) from high school is the one who first said it to me. I really loved it. I felt especially covered by God's love. I began telling it to others who visited, including Amy, hoping that they would feel the peace that it gave me.
I had no idea that it had become a bedtime ritual between Amy and me, but upon hearing her lament, my heart was warmed. It was the sign of another family connection between us, step-mother and step-daughter. I hope the blessing is something she will share with others, and I hope she thinks of me each time in the same loving way I think of Barbara. Amen.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Thin places
Thin places. Not on my body, you may be thinking, and you would be right, except for my very narrow feet, too narrow for most shoes. No, not on my body but haphazardly throughout my life, I experience thin places, times in my life when I have eyes to see God’s hand. I never knew what to call these moments, coincidences, or miracles (minor or otherwise) until I, along with other Disciples’ women, stepped into the realm of the ordinary being extraordinary at the annual spiritual writing retreat the past two summers. And it was this newfound awareness that led me to read the memoir Thin Places by Mary E. DeMuth. Let me share a few paragraphs from the opening chapter with you:
I, myself, am a thin place.
The Celts define a thin place as a place where heaven and the physical world collide, one of
those serendipitous territories where eternity and the mundane meet. Thin describes the membrane
between the tow worlds, like a piece of vellum, where we see a holy glimpse of the eternal--
not in digital clarity, but clear enough to discern what lies beyond.
Thin places are snatches of holy ground, tucked into the corners of our world, where, if we
pay very close attention, we might just catch a glimpse of eternity. Legend has it that thin places
are places for pilgrims, where ghostlike echoes of those gone before can be felt and heard,
where the Ancients whisper their wisdom near the ruins of a church or the craggy outcropping of
a rock. In this way, a thin place is an ancient doorway to the fairy-tale netherworld--a fanciful
notion that children embrace and adults find preposterous.
Maybe it’s my own imagination that hopes for real thin places on this earth. I’m a storyteller,
after all, prone to wander in make-believe worlds. I’d like to believe in portals to eternity--Narnia
doors beckoning me onward and upward. Even so, I’m broadening the metaphor a bit. Thin
places are snatches of time, moments really, when we sense God intersecting our world in tangible,
unmistakable ways. They are aha moments, beautiful realizations, when the Son of God bursts
through the hazy fog of our monotony and shines on us afresh.
He has come near to my life. I will tell you how.
Mary shares her life with her readers. She tells of traumatic things that happened to her as a child that continue to impact her life today, and she also tells of the lovely things that she has experienced. In each case, she identifies the part that God played.
When I opened the book, I was intrigued immediately upon reading that first sentence above (actually the second paragraph), “I, myself, am a thin place.” I’d never thought of myself, my person and being, as a thin place, but I've started thinking about it. We know from the Word that we are aliens in this land. We are not of this world, yet, we live here as God’s children. As Christians, do we wander always at the intersection of the spiritual and physical worlds? Am I a thin place, and are you?
I, myself, am a thin place.
The Celts define a thin place as a place where heaven and the physical world collide, one of
those serendipitous territories where eternity and the mundane meet. Thin describes the membrane
between the tow worlds, like a piece of vellum, where we see a holy glimpse of the eternal--
not in digital clarity, but clear enough to discern what lies beyond.
Thin places are snatches of holy ground, tucked into the corners of our world, where, if we
pay very close attention, we might just catch a glimpse of eternity. Legend has it that thin places
are places for pilgrims, where ghostlike echoes of those gone before can be felt and heard,
where the Ancients whisper their wisdom near the ruins of a church or the craggy outcropping of
a rock. In this way, a thin place is an ancient doorway to the fairy-tale netherworld--a fanciful
notion that children embrace and adults find preposterous.
Maybe it’s my own imagination that hopes for real thin places on this earth. I’m a storyteller,
after all, prone to wander in make-believe worlds. I’d like to believe in portals to eternity--Narnia
doors beckoning me onward and upward. Even so, I’m broadening the metaphor a bit. Thin
places are snatches of time, moments really, when we sense God intersecting our world in tangible,
unmistakable ways. They are aha moments, beautiful realizations, when the Son of God bursts
through the hazy fog of our monotony and shines on us afresh.
He has come near to my life. I will tell you how.
Mary shares her life with her readers. She tells of traumatic things that happened to her as a child that continue to impact her life today, and she also tells of the lovely things that she has experienced. In each case, she identifies the part that God played.
When I opened the book, I was intrigued immediately upon reading that first sentence above (actually the second paragraph), “I, myself, am a thin place.” I’d never thought of myself, my person and being, as a thin place, but I've started thinking about it. We know from the Word that we are aliens in this land. We are not of this world, yet, we live here as God’s children. As Christians, do we wander always at the intersection of the spiritual and physical worlds? Am I a thin place, and are you?
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Am I a writer?
Read and write. According to Ernest Hemingway and Stephen King, that’s what it takes to be a writer. I think it’s fair to add that a writer needs to have the gift or calling, the honed skill, and the passion too. Me, am I a writer? Do I have what it takes?
Of all of the above requirements, I can say that I am widely read. I have devoured books as quickly as potato chips from the time I was able to read on my own. Daily I eagerly awaited the mail hoping for a delivery from one of the book clubs my parents had let me join. When a new book arrived I quickly unleashed it from its packing and sat down in Daddy’s roomy black chair to begin a new adventure. Immediately I entered into the story whether it be a biography, classic, or the recounting of a famous event. As 5:00 p.m. neared my mother would tell me to set the table for dinner and I would call out that I’d get to it after I finished the chapter. Then the end of that chapter would leave me hanging, and I would start the next one and so on until my mother’s voice became harried or angry, her patience tried. Most of these books were recently rediscovered when I cleaned out the attic at my parents’ house upon their passing. They reside on my bookshelves, reminding me of the happiest of childhood times.
I also enjoyed other sources of reading material from “Highlights” to Scholastic books. And then there were visits to the city’s public library, The Burnham Anthenaeum, a big solid-looking building on Church Street, just across from the park. My eyes never strayed to the side of the street with the swings and climbing apparatus, no, my focus was entirely on my favorite destination. Once inside, I would stand in awe, admiring the pillars, marble, and huge staircase, and then I’d breathe in the familiar scent of the wooden bookcases and moldings. There, to the left and on the bottom shelf, was the Laura Ingalls Wilder series of “Little House” books. I read them all. I plowed through other series too, the Bobbsey Twins, okay but not a favorite, and Nancy Drew. Our sixth grade classroom library was composed solely of the Hardy Boys books, so I even read those.
During my high school years I was exposed to wonderful literature from around the world, and once I finished college and had time to read what I wished, I revisited many of those authors from Tolstoy and Dostoevsky to Vonnegut. During the summers of my teaching years, I often read two books a day, all “beach reading” from the local library.
My focus is different now having reached that point in my life where I realize that there is so little time and so many books. Consequently, my reading has become increasingly selective. Currently I am making my way through memoirs and literature suggested by writers as well as “how to” books on writing. I don’t know if I am preparing myself to write or merely testing myself. Do I have a gift for writing?
I don’t know. Much of my writing has been formal and work related--grants, long reports, instruction manuals, and articles for journals. More recently I wrote editorial columns for a small local newspaper and had some memoir pieces published as a result of the spiritual writing retreats I’ve attended. Now I have this blog that is supposed to provide me with an opportunity to write and the discipline to make timely entries. I have failed on the second. But it is the encouragement of others I have received for many years that spurs me on, and I find myself at 60 with this new purpose. Skills can be learned, but now is the time to discern my gift and my passion. Not for the faint-hearted.
Of all of the above requirements, I can say that I am widely read. I have devoured books as quickly as potato chips from the time I was able to read on my own. Daily I eagerly awaited the mail hoping for a delivery from one of the book clubs my parents had let me join. When a new book arrived I quickly unleashed it from its packing and sat down in Daddy’s roomy black chair to begin a new adventure. Immediately I entered into the story whether it be a biography, classic, or the recounting of a famous event. As 5:00 p.m. neared my mother would tell me to set the table for dinner and I would call out that I’d get to it after I finished the chapter. Then the end of that chapter would leave me hanging, and I would start the next one and so on until my mother’s voice became harried or angry, her patience tried. Most of these books were recently rediscovered when I cleaned out the attic at my parents’ house upon their passing. They reside on my bookshelves, reminding me of the happiest of childhood times.
I also enjoyed other sources of reading material from “Highlights” to Scholastic books. And then there were visits to the city’s public library, The Burnham Anthenaeum, a big solid-looking building on Church Street, just across from the park. My eyes never strayed to the side of the street with the swings and climbing apparatus, no, my focus was entirely on my favorite destination. Once inside, I would stand in awe, admiring the pillars, marble, and huge staircase, and then I’d breathe in the familiar scent of the wooden bookcases and moldings. There, to the left and on the bottom shelf, was the Laura Ingalls Wilder series of “Little House” books. I read them all. I plowed through other series too, the Bobbsey Twins, okay but not a favorite, and Nancy Drew. Our sixth grade classroom library was composed solely of the Hardy Boys books, so I even read those.
During my high school years I was exposed to wonderful literature from around the world, and once I finished college and had time to read what I wished, I revisited many of those authors from Tolstoy and Dostoevsky to Vonnegut. During the summers of my teaching years, I often read two books a day, all “beach reading” from the local library.
My focus is different now having reached that point in my life where I realize that there is so little time and so many books. Consequently, my reading has become increasingly selective. Currently I am making my way through memoirs and literature suggested by writers as well as “how to” books on writing. I don’t know if I am preparing myself to write or merely testing myself. Do I have a gift for writing?
I don’t know. Much of my writing has been formal and work related--grants, long reports, instruction manuals, and articles for journals. More recently I wrote editorial columns for a small local newspaper and had some memoir pieces published as a result of the spiritual writing retreats I’ve attended. Now I have this blog that is supposed to provide me with an opportunity to write and the discipline to make timely entries. I have failed on the second. But it is the encouragement of others I have received for many years that spurs me on, and I find myself at 60 with this new purpose. Skills can be learned, but now is the time to discern my gift and my passion. Not for the faint-hearted.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Zoe's tale of horror
Zoe thinks she is being stalked. She keeps a protective eye on her dinner and water dishes. The iRobot roomba has threatened her territory.
I came home from an afternoon of shopping and found Bob sitting at his computer with an alert Zoe, ears up, on his lap. “How was your day?” I asked.
“I’m just exhausted.” Bob replied, “Don’t your hear the noise?”
Then it came to me. He had purchased a new toy. Sure enough, the roomba was swirling under the chairs and beds, doing the hula down the hallway, and heading back to its dock to be recharged. I think I heard Zoe breathe the inevitable sigh of relief when the quiet returned. Bob calls the robot “Mr. Roomba,” but Zoe is convinced it’s actually possessed and has dubbed it “Chucky.”
Since Bob retired, we’ve split the housework. He’s in charge of floors, while I dust and clean the bathrooms. With the faux wooden floors we have throughout the condo and the light coming in through the three sets of sliding glass doors, dust bunnies seem to be reproducing at an exaggerated rate. Bob turned toward technology to replace his time behind the electric broom. I’d be more satisfied with its performance if it did a better job on corners and mopped. Probably the next generation will be so programmed. (Now was I talking about roombas or men?)
Zoe has adapted pretty well to the robot now and usually escapes to our bed for a rest when she recognizes it has awakened. However, since we moved a chaise lounge to the end of the bed, she has found another favorite place to nap. It has long been my dream to have a fainting couch to snuggle in during the hours I spend reading, and this is a delightful luxury. Luckily, Zoe shares it with me. Bob, in jest, calls it the most expensive dog bed ever, and when I put our pole lamp with its three lights by it, he named it Zoe’s personal tanning couch. She is unaware of all this though as she lays her head on the pillow and dreams of chasing the black squirrels.
I came home from an afternoon of shopping and found Bob sitting at his computer with an alert Zoe, ears up, on his lap. “How was your day?” I asked.
“I’m just exhausted.” Bob replied, “Don’t your hear the noise?”
Then it came to me. He had purchased a new toy. Sure enough, the roomba was swirling under the chairs and beds, doing the hula down the hallway, and heading back to its dock to be recharged. I think I heard Zoe breathe the inevitable sigh of relief when the quiet returned. Bob calls the robot “Mr. Roomba,” but Zoe is convinced it’s actually possessed and has dubbed it “Chucky.”
Since Bob retired, we’ve split the housework. He’s in charge of floors, while I dust and clean the bathrooms. With the faux wooden floors we have throughout the condo and the light coming in through the three sets of sliding glass doors, dust bunnies seem to be reproducing at an exaggerated rate. Bob turned toward technology to replace his time behind the electric broom. I’d be more satisfied with its performance if it did a better job on corners and mopped. Probably the next generation will be so programmed. (Now was I talking about roombas or men?)
Zoe has adapted pretty well to the robot now and usually escapes to our bed for a rest when she recognizes it has awakened. However, since we moved a chaise lounge to the end of the bed, she has found another favorite place to nap. It has long been my dream to have a fainting couch to snuggle in during the hours I spend reading, and this is a delightful luxury. Luckily, Zoe shares it with me. Bob, in jest, calls it the most expensive dog bed ever, and when I put our pole lamp with its three lights by it, he named it Zoe’s personal tanning couch. She is unaware of all this though as she lays her head on the pillow and dreams of chasing the black squirrels.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Stormy weather
Our neighbor saw the vortex. We stood stunned, unable to move even when we knew we should be concerned for our safety. Large branches were flying off of the long-lived tree in front of the pier. As the wind and rain increased, the right third of the tree began swaying almost rhythmically, its branches dipping close to the sand. We expected to hear the crack and see it in repose on the ground. Then, the storm increased in intensity, and we had no view at all.
This was the second storm of the morning. The first, in the early hours, left us without electricity, without a way to brew coffee. Seemed like a good idea to climb back in bed until the rain had stopped and the sun appeared. Without access to computer or television, we read.
It was the darkness that alerted us to the approaching storm. We had no other warning than the disappearing page.
Seventy to eighty mile-per-hour winds and two water spouts on Lake Macatawa were reported. Our neighborhood had been ravaged. Hundred-year-old trees lay fallen over electric lines, streets, houses, and cars, while the power plant was rendered impotent from a direct hit by a lightning bolt.
It was Monday. What an inauspicious way to begin a week.
This was the second storm of the morning. The first, in the early hours, left us without electricity, without a way to brew coffee. Seemed like a good idea to climb back in bed until the rain had stopped and the sun appeared. Without access to computer or television, we read.
It was the darkness that alerted us to the approaching storm. We had no other warning than the disappearing page.
Seventy to eighty mile-per-hour winds and two water spouts on Lake Macatawa were reported. Our neighborhood had been ravaged. Hundred-year-old trees lay fallen over electric lines, streets, houses, and cars, while the power plant was rendered impotent from a direct hit by a lightning bolt.
It was Monday. What an inauspicious way to begin a week.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Red velvet cake
Red velvet. The cake. The best cake in the world. My love for this confection started some forty years ago when I dined at an antebellum home turned restaurant in Biloxi, Mississippi. It has never wavered.
Red velvet. The name as it’s spoken and the vision of velvet material prepare one for the exquisite taste and texture of this dessert. It starts with four layers of Chocolate Devil’s Food cake made tender by the use of buttermilk and red by the addition of a generous amount of red food coloring. Cream cheese frosting tops each of the layers and is to the eyes and the tongue a perfect counterbalance.
Does this delicacy represent a tug of war between good and evil? Or is it simply a representation of both its deliciousness and amount of calories? No matter, it is a dessert not to be missed. A taste of heaven, I’m sure.
And now I just discovered that Marble Slab Creamery is offering red velvet ice cream. Yes, it’s something that should be sampled. Tonight.
Red velvet. The name as it’s spoken and the vision of velvet material prepare one for the exquisite taste and texture of this dessert. It starts with four layers of Chocolate Devil’s Food cake made tender by the use of buttermilk and red by the addition of a generous amount of red food coloring. Cream cheese frosting tops each of the layers and is to the eyes and the tongue a perfect counterbalance.
Does this delicacy represent a tug of war between good and evil? Or is it simply a representation of both its deliciousness and amount of calories? No matter, it is a dessert not to be missed. A taste of heaven, I’m sure.
And now I just discovered that Marble Slab Creamery is offering red velvet ice cream. Yes, it’s something that should be sampled. Tonight.
Monday, July 4, 2011
The REAL joy of biking
Do you remember learning to ride your first bicycle? My dad steadied me with a hold on the handlebars and seat and ran by my side as I pedaled down Coronado Drive. It turned out that balancing wasn’t difficult for me but learning to stop was. Thankfully my father hadn’t become too winded by the time I was able to brake and put my feet down For me, speed, distance, and freedom took on new meanings. I imagine it does for all new bikers.
Last Sunday, at the Union Avenue Christian Church in Litchfield, IL, I was reminded of that adventure when a pediatrician spoke to the congregation about the five-day Tour d’Haiti that he and twenty-some other bike riders had participated in. Over the course of 200 miles, the men visited Haitian children’s villages and gave away 200 Mongoose bicycles to orphaned and abandoned children. The video presentation was heart-grabbing, while some of the statistics he shared were heart-wrenching. For example, it’s estimated that there are over 250,000 orphans in Haiti, 100,000 in Cambodia, 85,000 in Chad, and nearly a million orphans or other vulnerable children in Rwanda. These children need cared for, educated, and loved.
The Global Orphan Project (transforming lives through orphan care), www,globalorphanproject.org, is doing just that. Although not affiliated with any denomination, the heart of this ministry is to “exist and operate as an expression of Jesus Christ’s radical love in a fallen world.” It’s mission is based on James 1:27 Religion that God our father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.
Donations go to meet the critical unmet needs of children and for investment in agricultural and economic development to make local orphan care sustainable. Donors can also sponsor a home or village. All administrative overhead and fund raising expenses have been covered by some very generous givers.
Please visit the web site and see this money at work Then see how you can become involved. You have the chance to be God’s hands and feet in a very concrete way. You have the power to transform the lives of orphaned and abandoned children.
Last Sunday, at the Union Avenue Christian Church in Litchfield, IL, I was reminded of that adventure when a pediatrician spoke to the congregation about the five-day Tour d’Haiti that he and twenty-some other bike riders had participated in. Over the course of 200 miles, the men visited Haitian children’s villages and gave away 200 Mongoose bicycles to orphaned and abandoned children. The video presentation was heart-grabbing, while some of the statistics he shared were heart-wrenching. For example, it’s estimated that there are over 250,000 orphans in Haiti, 100,000 in Cambodia, 85,000 in Chad, and nearly a million orphans or other vulnerable children in Rwanda. These children need cared for, educated, and loved.
The Global Orphan Project (transforming lives through orphan care), www,globalorphanproject.org, is doing just that. Although not affiliated with any denomination, the heart of this ministry is to “exist and operate as an expression of Jesus Christ’s radical love in a fallen world.” It’s mission is based on James 1:27 Religion that God our father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.
Donations go to meet the critical unmet needs of children and for investment in agricultural and economic development to make local orphan care sustainable. Donors can also sponsor a home or village. All administrative overhead and fund raising expenses have been covered by some very generous givers.
Please visit the web site and see this money at work Then see how you can become involved. You have the chance to be God’s hands and feet in a very concrete way. You have the power to transform the lives of orphaned and abandoned children.
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