Visiting a Friend Today...

I know it won’t always be easy. What does a mother of two boys hold in her hands that will keep them? There is no football, no Nascar, no WII game expertise. As they grow, my role diminishes. Really, this is how it must be, but how to hold on to the precious bits of them that this mamma heart treasures so?

Come with me over to Emily’s and find out one thing we do to keep that bond fresh and deep. You’ll find her place comfy and inviting…

New Creation

I stand with my knees quaking and my stomach churning, not knowing…not understanding. This wild feeling of the world upside down…things out of place. I don’t hear one word of the sermon…grief and confusion and worry for Liz make my mind too crowded for anything else. Love does that.

Where is it here?

Let’s tuck into God, I tell him. Let’s pull away from all this.

It’s okay to bow out gracefully.

I only want to think about good things tonight, I tell him.


I can do that, he says, if we stay away from there.

I look away.

It’s my fault, he says. I should be bigger—more mature.

And I can’t stand the hole that grows. I think of all the times he was so much bigger—so much more mature. And I know Christ died for my sins and it looms large but I wonder what He’s up to, breaking things this way.

We are only human.

So we drive to a new place, dine overlooking the square--just the four of us…pretend we’re okay. And we go, because we already have the tickets.

And in the dark and flashing lights, a small hand reaches for mine and I feel the trust there and I feel the impact of it all on him.

And my heart dances.

We worship with hands in the air.

Today I give thanks.

For the strength to make it through.

For darkness.


For handholding in the dark.


For music.

And passion.


And a red-haired boy with passion.

Leeland Mooring of the band Leeland. That boy is on fire. And I'm not just talking about his hair.

And when he sang this song.

For deep faith stories and fathers who share.

Matt Hammit of the band Sanctus Real talks about his infant son's heart surgery and how it has grown his faith.

And when they sang this song.

For this word, that sustained...through church, through Sunday school. I just kept writing it over and over on my bulletin.

That even in the hard stuff, He is there. And I feel Him there too. 


For my husband. That dear, long-suffering man who has given grace to those who are trying to show grace to another. No matter how much it has hurt him. Because he is bigger. And more mature.

For the way God makes all things new.

I am new today, friend. I am new.

In the Quiet

I have class all day today, friends. So this morning I'm revisiting some thoughts from the archives. Thinking about quiet moments...

I like to fill my bird feeders at first light on Saturdays. After morning readings, I sit at the kitchen table with my coffee and watch winged poetry through the bay. I am always rewarded with the vibrant reds of the cardinals, the spritely black caps of chickadees, and serenading sparrow song. Sometimes the shy flicker stops by, clinging to the feeder with grasping toes, red mustache jauntily twitching under curved bill.

I never tire of their antics and often grieve to leave my window--reluctant to begin the noise of the day. Their light-filled movements are music to me; in the watching my mind finds rest.

Matthew Kelty, in his book Flute Solo: Reflections of a Trappist Hermit, says that quiet moments such as these are the substance of an intimate relationship with God.
day and night with noise, even beautiful noise. Allow him no time to think, to muse, to ponder, to won

We all need contact with our hearts. Without that contact we are isolated from truth, divorced from reality. Quiet is certainly one of the ways to that contact. And peace. I suspect seriously that the single most effective weapon of Satan in our times is noise. I cannot think of a better way to alienation and loss of religion. Fill a man der. Fill his air with sound, his ears with din. His heart will die soon enough. Now you have broken him. He can no longer love.

I know not one who has not felt that brokenness.

Busy-ness is an idol in our culture. This is the way of multi-tasking, batch projects--of stretching our umbrella, extending our reach.

Not a bad way in and of itself. In fact, it can be quite a good way.

But I must not lose the quiet moment in each task; I must not miss the heart connection.

And that is the tricky part, no? To hear His voice above the din…to see beauty in the ordinary.

There is something to the Muslim practice of salat--the obligatory rite of their religion that requires prayer five times a day, at specified times. In this way, the mind is trained to quiet--to focus on God.

As a Christian I wonder at such measures. I know that Christ’s death on the cross eliminated the need for ritual and ceremony when I approach God. The veil was torn. Yet, my human condition makes me susceptible to caressing this skin…forgetting the divine and leaning on flesh.

And so I make my own reminders.

A stone in my pocket. A jewel around my neck. A scripture scribbled on a sticky note.

Not incredibly inventive. Certainly not iconic. But each, when caressed by a finger or held in the palm, ushers me into His presence.

And I am reminded that my flesh has been cleansed. The string that ties my heart to Him becomes tangible. I am strengthened.

The quiet is restored. I hear his voice above the din.

And the day becomes holy.

The Golden Cage

He called the sonnet the golden cage, saying, But it has to cage something fairly wild, something that needs caging…

And she said poetry offers a religion of noticing things…that it provides a place to quiet yourself…

And I told my pastor this morning that when I read a few of these pearls strung exquisitely together, I feel Him and my longing for Him is ever more heady and solicitous. And it is wild and in need of caging, and it is a quiet place to find…everything—it is the beauty in all that screams to be noticed.

Poetry is this—a path to His presence.


When in the night my soul dost cease to sleep,
Besotted mind lifts to that wondrous place,
Wherein the day my beating heart dost keep--
The place of you and your most beauteous face.

It’s wild! This beast that sleep cannot contain;
Cupped by your hand the creature frees to fly.
Heart, hammer—thrash—against all other frame!
Your bars of love enfold the highest high.

A quiet place where desperate souls find rest;
Set crowns aside to dine on joy instead.
All who hunger deep, feast--the banquet’s best
And Shangri La is found upon my bed.

This quiet place where wild things dance with thee;
Blood price is paid, the Golden Cage sets free.

Love Letters: A Poem

the way the dogwoods burn
red in the fall
and the maples wave
roasted sienna. poplars
in a state of undress and
the way the hills
flow gold and
gamboge. the way
the wind smells--
all chimney smoke and
rich decay. how the
sky folds blue into
the daylight hours. the
sound of paper leaves,
skit-skit-skitting across
sidewalk.

love letters to
my heart.

linking up to L.L. Barkat's In, On, and Around Mondays today. Join any day!

The Beauty of Mucking Through

We are giving up summer. All week, as the hills outside slowly wink color and the wind grows uppity; I have been going through the boys’ closets—putting up the shorts and t-shirts, dragging out the jeans.

Every year when this time comes around I must look long and deep at these two boys who own my heart. Could they really have grown so much in such a short span of time? The answer, of course, is yes.

I pull out a pair of jeans that are far beyond the flood stage.

Did you really wear these last year? I ask Jeffrey. He shrugs his shoulders.

The goodwill pile grows into a mountain, and it seems like I am giving away memories. This is the Pat White Jersey that’s been in his closet for two years. And this? A favorite tie-dyed shirt—the one his school picture was taken in.

He wants to keep it.

What for? I ask.

I don’t know...

When he tries it on and reaches to the ceiling his bellybutton stares at me.

No.

It’s an arduous task and getting them to try on the questionables is something akin to asking them to volunteer for torture. It makes me grumpy and sad all at once—this upsizing. If I dig deep enough in the drawers I wonder if I will find the outfit we brought him home from the hospital in—the one that was too big with the lamb’s face on the front.

My boys are growing up. I try not to be too sentimental about these things—it makes them squeamish. But in moments like these the passing of time stares me bold in the face and brings me to my knees.

Last night the storms came. I watched lightening flash across the sky and felt the cleaning of the rain pelting the window…stripping away pieces of me, layer by layer. When I opened the door I could smell the turning of the seasons—could taste the decay of mossy leaves on the wind.

This morning, I ran in a cold rain. My nose was leaky and my shoes were wet and big trucks kept driving by and spraying me with waves of dirty street water. The sky was spreading white--no sun, no stars. Just a bleak sort of gray. Suddenly, in the headlights of a passing car, I could see the sheets of rain falling. Each individual pane of water shone like glass in the air around me and it. was so. beautiful. Time seemed to slow and my breath came in long and deep. I was aware of beds of fallen foliage deposited here and there…sometimes a lone leaf would flutter to the ground before me or get caught up in a swirl of car draft.

I made up my mind right there to love this life. I promised God to see the individual threads of falling rain sparkling like diamonds on a sunless morning. To see the beauty in changing seasons and cold gray days. To see the transforming nature of the mucking through in every day—laundry, work, traffic, love.

And I just kept going.

Time does that too. Marches on.

And it is a beautiful thing.

My boys are growing up. I’m paying attention to the details. I don’t want to miss a single droplet of life.

It’s just way too good.

Photo-Playing

She said, look backward, forward, in, at or down…let the light in—look for reflection.

I watch the clouds bunch in and spread out with dismay. I missed my chance for the good light. Mr. Sun is shying away—fast fading.

But I pack up the camera anyway.

The light is already waning as we make our way through traffic for our Tuesday night constitutional. Those boys joke silly and laugh and eat Kentucky Fried Chicken but I just eye the clouds passing by the window. Look at the leaves, I murmur, and they quiet for a moment—but not too long. So I do, I look. The poplars are all yellow and the maples are fire—there’s fire in the leaves and no one even notices. And I am wishing for the sun.

We climb the old yellow steps and pass through the linoleum halls. I breathe in the scent of music, and wonder—does the tinkling of keys and wild plucking of strings hold this place together? Years of melody haunt with each step. Each boy settles in to lessons. I turn my back on the scratch of bow and let winsome guitar chords fade behind.

I make my way to the square.

Colors and aromas whisk senses into crested peaks--the shops an endless variety of delights. I stare.

There are two old men sitting on the bench at the thoroughfare. They laugh loudly, turning my head at this sound of intimates. Their eyes follow me down the street and I am self-conscious—hug my camera to my side. I stop in front of the antique mall.

There are dishes and dollies, cookie jars and toll trays. I lean my head against the window and remember. I close my eyes and imagine these items new—shiny and beloved. When I open again I understand more about reflection. I see the pear tree—the one on the edge of the street—sitting right in the middle of the room full of antiques. And those cookie jars? They sit atop and inside a grey sedan. The entire street is nestled into this room full of memories. A Tiffany lampshade dangles in the midst and I see how lovely…how lovely the past fades into today.

The bicycle shop down the street sports its own tree, and the manikin’s head disappears into a great expanse of cloudy sky.

The day is disappearing but I see reflections everywhere. When I stop by the café door my feet stand on dull sidewalk but in this image I am on a magic carpet. It adorns the bottom of my skirt with intricate lacy patterns. I am a ghost. These things pass through me.

In an office building, the contents of a desk mingle with a stone picnic table. I could never create such a lovely collage.

The Korean restaurant boasts awning shadow, flapping in the breeze, over maple leaves and metallic light inside. It gives me chills how the light plays with the wind.

I see the sky in the hoods of cars, the Asian restaurant in her showy green and scaffolding.

And I see me.

We drive back home, twilight twinkling and I am just a breath. I have withered into the glass, melted between panes. I am faded reflection and the way the light spoke quiets me.

Lucy Mae waits and we walk her under the crescent. The crazy neighbors have erected a crypt in their front yard and orange lights weave in and out of their bushes. I don my creepy voice and grab Jeffrey by the arm, clutching with skeletal hands—rotten flesh hanging from my bones. He jumps every time and runs through the dark like a song.

And the clouds pass in and out over the moon—winking; reflecting beauty…reflecting light.

this post is part of a community project over at theHighCalling. Find out more about it here. Join in the fun if you care too!

I Brought A Cowboy (hat) Home From Texas

I brought a cowboy
hat
home from
Texas.
Carried it on
my head.
The people, they looked
to read
such a book
so it went on my lap instead.

I brought a cowboy
hat
home from
Texas.
Dan said the brown was
the best.
The yellow was fair
but he gave it
a stare
and declared it a man-li-ness test.

I brought a cowboy
hat
home from
Texas.
What, for my sweetheart
to wear.
And how I did smile
when in my
mind’s eye,
I saw it anest in his hair.

I brought a cowboy
hat
home from
Texas.
From San Antonio
to Hurricane.
And when I walked
through
the door,
the hat fell
on the floor
and there
for some time
it remained…

HighCalling: Share the Couch

I sit on this couch and try on words. I tug and pull, suck in tight, breathe out deep, turn around and look behind...My living room becomes the changeling stall in which I am forever changed—forever changing. Any given day might produce a new ensemble, there are endless choices: encourager, mourner, dreamer, lover, poet. Like superman I don these words and I am transformed from one who sits to one who soars.

But even soaring—even transformation and all that--gets lonely here on the couch.

That must have been it—that human need to be heard—the thing that sent me searching. But when I got involved with The High Calling I was not aware of a deliberate effort to find kinship. Yet, this is what I found. I scoot over on the couch and pat the cushion beside me. With this simple gesture I usher into my living room an online village of creative thinkers-- artists who express their faith through their art and encourage each other in unique ways.

Those solitary times on the couch are over. Time to take the transformation out for a walk. So I do. I hang my ramshackle ensembles out on the line—let them flap in the breeze. And I am taken by surprise at the joy of it.

When I entered the HCB community, I had no idea what online community meant. I was just a blogger looking to learn from other bloggers. Last week, the High Calling Blogs editorial team met up in Texas for a retreat. Perhaps you’ve heard about it? Many of us met in the flesh for the first time, preparing for the launch of a new and improved website.

Before we took flight, our senior editor (Marcus Goodyear) asked the team members, what are three things you hope we'll do together/talk about/learn/accomplish during our time at Laity Lodge?

One of my three was this: I would like to learn more about Laity (the foundation that supports HCB)...some more history and how we all are interconnected…I would like to know more about the evolution of the two separate online presences, (HighCalling.org and HighCallingBlogs.com) etc. I'd like a good understanding of where I (we) fit into the machine.

In other words, what’s a little blogger like me doing in a place like this?

On the way to Laity Lodge, that question loomed large before me.

We spent that first day in San Antonio, playing and getting to know each other (has anyone else been to San An and not seen the Alamo? Besides Sam, Vea, Deidra and me? Too busy having fun…). When we entered the canyon, the Frio was our road--we actually drove down a few miles of the shallow river bed to reach the lodge. We arrived around midnight and the night blinded us to the beauty that cupped us. But the stars. The Milky Way is rich and creamy there—swirling around the best and the brightest. I think I saw all Seven Sisters for the first time in my life.

That night I lay my head on my pillow with a smile on my face.

We awakened the next day to the beauty of Laity Lodge. Not only is the natural setting gorgeous, but the attention to detail in the construction of the lodge and its companion structures is humbling. There is artwork everywhere. The tiles in the bathrooms are scripted with verses and quotes to inspire. A fully stocked artist’s studio is available to all. Swings and hammocks pepper the grounds, interspersed with sculpture and gardens with carefully chosen plants. The staff are amazing. The food outrageous. Every detail is attended to.

But that’s not all. Wherever we stepped we felt a hush in our hearts that whispered of the holiness of this ground.

What do you do to prepare for these retreats? Deidra asked Steven Purcell, the director of Laity Lodge.

She wanted to know if there were prayers uttered over every square inch, if our names were lifted up, if these walls were baptized…What? What creates such a hallowed feeling in these canyon walls?

We found out a bit of the answer a short time later when Keith Mirrer, the foundation’s Director of Communications, and Dan Roloff, the Publishing Manager, met with us to give us a welcome and brief history of the organization. They explained to us the dream that was Laity Lodge and how Howard Butt, Jr. grew it into this amazing place.


This is the vision that God gave to Howard, Keith said.

He called it backdoor evangelism.

Dan Roloff explained Mr. Butt’s philosophy. It’s not a five-step program. It’s not a sermon. It’s not a lot of in-your-face God talk.

All of our programs are about encountering God and providing a place for transformation to occur…You come here and Boom! God is here.

He sure did get that right.

And isn’t that what we all want? To be transformed? To feel it in our bones and our hearts and be set on fire by that encounter? Sometimes the preacher in us just needs to get out of the way.

And then Marcus spoke. He pointed out three things that make Laity Lodge such a special place.

Content. Not only is the content of the surroundings amenable to a God-encounter, but the speakers and musicians they engage are excellent.

Hospitality. If you’re not meeting, you’re eating, Steven said. Plus the hammocks. And the swings. Did I mention the art studio? They arranged a concert for us. Need I say more?

Aesthetic. Beauty everywhere. I think I’ve touched on that.

Marcus then drove it home.


Laity Lodge has all these things, he said. How do we bring all this, he gestures to our surroundings, to others?

That’s what we’re trying to do at TheHighCalling, friends. Provide a place where transformation might occur. Provide a God-encounter.

Won’t you scoot over on the couch and invite us in? You are not just a little blogger in this big, big world. Every detail of your life matters. You are part of something so much bigger.


Our Mission:


TheHighCalling seeks to create opportunities for Christian leaders to encounter God through new media tools for the transformation of daily life, work, and our world. Christian leaders are in all aspects and activities of daily life—including home, community, leisure, as well as occupation.

Fairy King

fae--
your face
and hands
on me;
hot breath,
under the Rowan
tree are
bundled
cream and
butter. they say

turn aside from
the will-o-the-wisp
and wear cold
iron on your
wrists, carry a
crumb of bread
in the pocket—
but I
swallow
the light

that leads me
home and fall
into you in mists
of dripping grasses
and you tangle
my hair, raking
teeth through elf-
locks and messing
my all with your
tempest winds.

i bury my face
in your earth, drink
the cup of familiar--
warm, musty...

home. I am home.
where you are, I
am home.

Canyon Walls: poem

I sleep with my head
on this pillow
and dream the dreams
of canyon walls, not
closing in but swinging
wide the avenues of
my nous, fortifying the
kardia—folding mind
and heart into one
prayer, inside this body-
temple; re-pairing this
ancient hospitality of
being—an invitation,
with crisp white edges,
to the Spirit to come
dwell within the walls
of my person. When
I awake, I weep with
joy and tentatively swing
my feet to the floor—
stepping out into my
life—onto holy ground.

The Wound--the Blessing

She left it on my bed with words of gratitude, giving in that quiet way she does. I cupped it in my hand and felt its weight—solid, like our time in Texas. We had talked a little, but not a lot—both a bit bewildered by the hole in our hearts. I told her I didn’t want to miss what God had for me here because of this longing for home…but it was hard. She told me when she phoned home her mother asked her what God is teaching her here. And I thought how wonderful to have a mother who would ask such a question and I tried to imagine if I could be that kind of mother. I so desperately want to be. And I pondered it in my heart.

Too many things.

It took me by surprise, this tender ache of missing. That first morning I went outside at daybreak. The sky white before the sun, blinding all the stars. I lay in the hammock and listened to a hidden crow croaking somewhere nearby. I told Him what I was thinking, and cried a little. His hand holds all the comfort. But when I opened my eyes the loneliness for the other half of me swooped in and pressed down hard.

I want to be where you are.

Later that morning, Scott Cairns spoke of recovering or rejoining our minds (nous) and our hearts (kardia). He imagined a kind of prayer that unites the two in the ways the saints spoke of.


Gather yourself together in your heart…Make secret prayer in your heart. (Saint Theophan the Recluse).

I held my hand over my heart as he spoke, imagined pressing my mind into this pulsing place—marrying the two primary ways I sense God’s presence. For a brief moment, I felt it hover there—this mind descended into the heart—and my entire self was engaged in a prayer that had no words. But it slipped away.

And again the aching empty.

Mr. Cairns quoted a father at a monastery he visited:

Like Jacob, you must hold on to Him. And like Jacob, you will be wounded. Like Jacob, you must say, ‘I will not let You go unless you bless me,’ and then the wound, the tender hip thereafter, the blessing…when you plead to know He is here, and when He answers you, and helps you to meet Him here, you will be wounded by that meeting. The wound will help you know, and that is the blessing.

The wound is the blessing.

So I carry my wound around the rest of the days and I feel it. The blessing.

This morning I unpack the cup, the gift. I wash its dense blue and gray-brown with warm suds and let it dry upside down as I pack the boys’ lunches. And when I’m ready, I wrap my fingers around its weight and drink from Laity again.

I asked Dan at the airport, what will you remember most? What tiny bit of treasure do you take with you?

And he talks about the time we were all together and we laughed so hard we cried. Yes, that was good.

And I think about the question Ann’s mother asked, and I’m still wondering.

I think about Jeff telling us that a story invites people in to discover for themselves…I remember how hard I listened. But the hummingbird feeder was just beyond our table and my eyes kept drifting to blurred wings darting in and out, landing light, dipping into sweet.

I remember after the reception, Vea and Deidra and I leaned against the car and looked up at the most amazing blanket of star-filled sky. Vea started to sing.

O Lord my God,
When I in awesome wonder
Consider all
The works Thy Hand hath made,

Then Deidra joined.


I see the stars,
I hear the mighty thunder,
Thy pow'r throughout
The universe displayed;

We three sang together under the stars.

Then sings my soul,
My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art!
How great Thou art!
Then sings my soul,
My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art!
How great Thou art! 

I remember running before sunrise under these same brilliant stars and dipping my hands in the Frio River.


I remember Ann and Ann doing dishes side by side, and Marcus drying. Tender arms around me when I break down over the missing, and fist bumps. I think of the hike we went on with Kenny and Scott—standing at the top of the canyon. And Ashley telling me about Kenny getting baptized in the Frio right in front of the lodge and the way she made the sacred hymns come alive for me. I remember.

I drink it in. I hold it in my hands. And I walk with a limp.

Because the wound is the blessing.