Category Archives: gratitude

Our Trip to Savannah

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Back in May, I flew to Georgia to visit Lolita for a weekend. In the first hour, I knew she and Michelle and I needed to spend a weekend together. They had both been through traumatic years: caring for Ukranian refugees in Poland, re-entry to the US after 20+ years, a teen son with recurring osteosarcoma. They were still living in the ragged stages of recovery and survival and I knew in my soul we needed time to talk, breathe slow, and be present with each other. “We three should get together in—Savannah,” I said rashly, because I felt it deeply but didn’t have a plan.

They didn’t dismiss the idea, even though it felt impossible. How could it be possible, two homeschooling moms leaving for a weekend? We kept hinting at the dream throughout the summer, waited for  CT scan results, and when they were (miraculously!) clear, we started planning in earnest.

We would stay on Tybee Island. Michelle would drive 9 hours from VA. I would fly in late after teaching that day at Ministry Training Center. Lolita would have the shortest drive and would bring the essential food items: coffee, cream, and scone ingredients for me to bake.

They settled into our un-luxurious but clean condo and had the evening together on the beach and picked me up at the airport after 10:00. Each night was so funny. We had all these things we wanted to do and talk about, (including a blind date they’re thinking about for me) but after about 10:30, we discovered we weren’t teenagers anymore, and we’d struggle on until we hit a wall at midnight and call it a day. I spent the next week trying to catch up on the lost sleep. I wonder if this proves my age more than anything else about me.

We didn’t sleep late, and sipped our coffee on the balcony in the glorious sunshine. I mixed up the scones and made a mistake and they became a fluffy cakey thing that we nibbled the rest of the day. We wanted to name this new creation but couldn’t settle on a name that suited us.

The beach wasn’t hot, but it was sand and water and scattered sunshine. And it was space to talk and talk and listen and listen and laugh and cry. We found our way to the city and the river front, and got carried away with the elegant, weathered, old-world vibe.

 

Vic’s on the River was a elegant place that served food flavored to perfection. We moaned and swooned over my shrimp and grits and Lolita’s she-crab soup. I was going to be good and order water, but how could I not enjoy sweet tea while in the south? The sweet tea was perfection. The wait staff were elegant and personable and we felt like princesses.

At the end of our meal, the lady beside us asked if we’d recommend the shrimp and grits. We got into a conversation when she asked where we’re from. We explained that we’ve been close friends for years at a distance, and have never been together with just the three of us. “This is a story,” our new friend said. “You could write a book about how you all got together!”

It’s true. Way back in our Voxer days, I created our chat group so that we could stay connected over all our drama. These were the friends who knew me the longest and we’ve stayed connected by that bond that comes from years of shared history. A book would make a good story about strong, enduring friendship across many miles and years. And the wonder is that it’s not a story, but a beautiful friendship of three.

For the rest of the glorious afternoon, we ambled the beautiful old streets marked by restful squares filled with giant live oaks, benches, and paths. We moved slow, took lots of pictures, oohed and ahhhed over anything and everything, and laughed often, because there were always big feelings.

 

In one deserted square, it was golden hour and Michelle was taking lots of pictures and the fountain was calling my name. I sat on its edge, swung my feet into the water, and asked Michelle to take a picture of me splashing. But on the second kick, my sandal strap broke. This is maybe one reason  moms don’t let their children splash in public fountains, but I say when you’re nearly 50, the rules change. Even so, I knew as I was kicking that the sandals weren’t made for this kind of fun, and I should’ve taken them off first. We laughed and wailed at my thoughtlessness, and I walked for hours with one sandal. Eventually, we passed a CVS where I found cheap flip flops to wear back to the house. I still don’t regret splashing in the fountain. I’ll splash barefoot next time.

.    

We watched art students sketch and sat long at Forsyth Square. We kept thinking we were back in Europe and it felt surreal. We got snacks and headed back to the condo and couldn’t manage to stay awake and coherent past midnight.

 

The next morning, we savored coffee on the balcony again and packed up. The beach was  cool and windy, so we headed to the city. The drive in, across green swamps, was like moving through a painting. We found Savannah Coffee Roasters, a place that ticks all the boxes for a coffee shop you could stay at for a long time or keep coming back to. One of the owners is Australian, which may account for that flair of menu choice and extraordinary service.

  

We took our coffee and pastries to a shaded square and sat on a park bench and talked for a long, long time. We had to watch the clock because we had miles to go that day, but we didn’t move fast. We found a Churchill pub with she-crab soup and sweet tea and it was wonderful. Then we had to say goodbye. Michelle hit the road and Lolita dropped me off at the airport.

I had a very long, lonely, late trip home and fell into bed in the wee hours of Monday morning with no regrets.

This tells what we did, in broad strokes. Michelle was the unofficial professional photographer and all the stellar shots here are hers. Photos are wonderful to document the sights. But what we heard, felt, said, saw, stays with us beyond what photos convey. All we can say is we’re much better  for this sweet, beautiful break in an old southern city.

Look For a Lovely Thing

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I took a walk this evening. I was sleepy after supper and didn’t feel like walking, but I told myself, “If you don’t take a walk, you’ll die.” It’s not that dire, of course, but I was feeling melodramatic, and when the sky is clear and the next half hour is free, a walk is always the best idea.

When I crossed the road in front of my house, I saw this leaf in the grass and it gave me an idea:

Dr. Elissa Weichbrodt, on Instagram, does what she calls “color walking.” I heard her speak earlier this year, and was so moved with the way she sees the world and the Christian’s place in it that I’ve never been quite the same since. I read her new book, Redeeming Vision, and love how she unpacks art and its back stories. When I saw how she does color walks, I felt cynical because in my neighborhood, there’s never anything as exciting or dramatic as the vibrant colors she finds. So I never tried color walking, even in the summer.

But this evening, this faded leaf pushed me into trying something new. I decided to call it contemplative walking, like Dr. Weichbrodt does sometimes, and took pictures of all the yellow I could see.

It pushed me to walk faster, toward the next yellow thing because I didn’t know what it would be.

I saw shades that tended toward tan and orange, and the sun was setting in glorious clouds, but I was focused.

Look for a (yellow) thing and you will find it.

I kept thinking of Sara Teasdale’s lines,

“Look for a lovely thing and you will find it,
It is not far——
It never will be far.”

Lucky I was looking for yellow. Pink or purple is going to be a harder search.

 

Blood, Red

Posted in gratitude, love, poetry, words by

My pastor says

If we could hear the stories

Of what happened last night

In every house

Within

A two-mile radius from us, it would

Break

Our

Hearts.

 

My pastor’s breaking voice and

The tears of Jesus

Keep me from crumpling

At the chaos, wails, shards

In humanity,

In me.

 

In the garden of agony

He knew last night’s stories.

The olive press, gnarled trunks,

Cracked earthen paths gave

Witness to His writhing.

 

Bankers, bakers, henchmen,

Sharp-ribbed orphans,

Traffickers—all

Mewl, not knowing

They were made for a garden

Of scents, luscious, and

Colors, wondrous,

Brimming with golden shalom

Light years away.

 

I draw a circle on the map—

Its stories shatter me.

 

He holds the circle of the earth

And weeps.

 

The man above time,

Whose pulse beats justice,

Carries without despair

The weight of the world

And the tears of tykes

While

Grief,

Blood red,

Stabs him

Too.

 

 

I wrote a book one time about living well in a place I didn’t plan to be. You can order your copy here!

Summer Pieces

Posted in community, food, gratitude, life, love, music, recommendations, Sunday School by

Well. It’s been summer of staying local, not buzzing away to see far-flung people. It’s been good, even though I’m feeling antsy. My summer priorities were to plug in where my feet are, and I have no regrets. But yes, I’m ready to go somewhere. Meanwhile, I’ll recommend bits and pieces that have fed me and kept me from getting bored and stagnant.

In the spring, I was telling a friend that I’m not going anywhere because I don’t have international travel plans this year. “Yeah, you’re not going anywhere. You’re just going to New York,” she joked. She had a point. “Going somewhere” is fairly subjective.

I went to Brooklyn for my summer break in June. Before I went, I was scared I’d be lonely, but in some mysterious alchemy, that didn’t happen until the very last day. The break in the city was everything I needed it to be: books, socializing, solitude, exploring, favorite haunts, new friends, a few ESL lessons. Next year year, I’ll turn 50, and I intend to celebrate all year, starting now, and I felt that a concert would be a good way to start. I dithered for days. Was it too much money? And who goes to a concert alone? But I got a ticket to listen to the Met Orchestra and Choir sing Brahm’s Ein deutsches Requiem at Carnegie Hall, and in the first 30 seconds, I knew this was the right decision. The music was exquisite and glorious, and I’ll always be glad I went. And it turns out lots of people go to concerts alone. Here is the recording that I listen to often, which is wonderful, but nothing like hearing it live.

Earlier in the year, I had the opportunity to be present for a talk that moved me so deeply that I’ve listened to the recording multiple times. Charles Cotherman spoke on Becoming Human. He suggested that efficiency doesn’t help us be more human, but close community does. And he said we can only serve God in the place where our feet are, a truism that hit me hard. He’s researched the story of Christian study centers such as L’Abri, where Christians formed communities centered around education, and he wrote about them in Thinking Christianly. After his talk, I told him how much I admired the Schaeffers’ work at L’Abri, but he reminded me that they had a work at a particular time and place, and our work in this time and place is going to look different.

I listened to an audio book on Hoopla that had me grinning often and I still live in its aura. This is Happiness is set in Ireland in the 1950’s when the villages were “getting the electricity.” I’ve never enjoyed descriptions of rain so much. The narrator was Irish, which added to the nostalgia, and I was sorry when the story ended. However, the title and its meaning stays with me, and I hope it always will.

In a round-about, God-led way, I came across a podcast that was so gripping and beautiful, I gave it as a listening assignment to the women’s Sunday school class I’m teaching. We’re studying John, and this sermon, “I Am The Bread” by Tyler Stanton, fed me profoundly. It’s on Spotify here and on his church’s website here. I usually listen to books and podcasts at 1.3 or 1.4 times the normal speed, which helps keep me focused. But not this speaker! I also loved his sermon on Theology of the Body. And I’m reading his book Praying Like Monks, Living Like Fools, which is solid and convicting.

Another book I just finished is Holy Unhappiness by Amanda Held Opelt. I really agree with her premise: that the prosperity gospel has seeped into our theology and made us feel more entitled than we realize. Her insights about satisfaction in marriage and work seem sound and realistic, which was refreshing, and made me wish I’d read this a long time ago. However, I felt very disturbed at her personal story of medical crisis and how God miraculously healed her after four days. I don’t want to minimize her trauma and suffering, but really? Four days? It felt dismissive of anyone who has wept and suffered and begged God for healing for months and years. I struggled to take her seriously after that, and I need to discuss the book’s message with someone else who’s read it.

This summer, besides good things to listen to and read, there have also been guests hosted and mini celebrations, simple and happy and not overwhelming to plan and carry out.

I hosted a small party to celebrate my healed wrist, and it included pavolova with chocolate and raspberries, which always makes the angels sing.

There was fresh basil to make pesto for a tomato salad at our book club’s picnic.

There were scones to celebrate one friend’s birthday,

and Strawberry Brita cake for another friend’s birthday.

There has been Bible study at jail to prep and lead, and exquisite moments with those strong, brave women in hard places. There have been beautiful choirs that made me cry and worship. There have been meaningful lunch conversations and prayers and Literature Camp with more beautiful conversations and friends. There was an evening of solitude by Lake Erie where I made a piece of art with stones and sand as an act of slowing down and talking with God.

I’m still glad that Guys Mills has roads leading out of it. My feet are still itchy and probably always will be, but it’s been a good summer of serving where my feet are.

Pain and Goodness

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On the second night of February, I’d been working late and was walking home in the dark at 8:30. I was excited about having wrapped up a writing class, and was oblivious to how the temperature had dropped drastically after the day’s rain. That meant there was smooth ice on our gravel path and before I knew what was happening, my feet shot out from under me.

On my back on the ice, I thought to myself that usually when one falls, it hurts their knee or shoulder or head. But nothing hurt except my wrist, with a blinding pain I’d never felt before. I howled and rolled around in pain on the snow beside the path and found a way to get back on my feet. My housemate was gone for the weekend. The house was dark and when I walked in, my wrist had an egg-bump. I cried and googled what to do for a sprain and found frozen cranberries to put on it. Surely it was just badly sprained.

I wanted to call my neighbor friend to come help me but she was gone for the weekend too, so I cried more, not sure if the tears were from pain or from being alone. I knew I needed to sleep more than I needed to spend the night in the ER. So I managed the shower, pain pills, a pillow to elevate my arm while I sleep. (Managed became the operative word for the next months.) I slept decently, which seems like a miracle.

The next morning, I managed to walk to work in a winter wonderland. My coworkers said I need to get the wrist checked out. My doctor said she’d call the x-ray order in to the medical center because she doesn’t want to ask me to drive to see her first. It was one of the blowiest, snowiest mornings of the year and my friend took me in her car and we crept into town on bad, hilly, snow-covered roads. It was a nightmare. But we were kept safe.

In the waiting room, I bumped into sweet Omani friends, which was a lovely distraction. Waiting for the results, I asked the receptionist where I could get a drink of water, and she brought me this tall glass of cold water–well beyond her line of duty, I’m sure. And my coworker friend went beyond her duty to stay with me the whole morning, plus hand me a package of salted dark chocolate on the way home.

In the waiting room. I deeply feel the irony of the book title in this context!When the x-rays and CT scans were read, I learned there were two diagonal breaks at the tip of the radius. Maybe that explained the terrible pain. Maybe it was double the pain of one break. It was too late to go to ortho for a cast, and because it was Friday, I had to come back Monday for that. I spent Saturday chasing the sun in my house, studying to lead prison Bible study, and playing big, sweeping Christopher Tin music from the next room so I wouldn’t feel so alone. I cried because I had to cancel the next months of piano lessons and was excited to pack an overnight bag to celebrate a cousin’s 30th birthday party. The harrowing weekend was the beginning of months of paradox: managing so much pain AND being given so much goodness on every side.

     

At ortho, the specialist didn’t seem super confident or competent. I need my wrist and I was terrified he’d miss something and I’d have to live with a damaged wrist. He said I’m not out of the woods for possibly needing surgery, which terrified me more. The first day with my cast, I wrote Bible study notes on my fingers to take into jail. The notes didn’t work great but the motherly Jehovah Witness lady who always goes in with us helped drape my coat around my shoulder because my arm didn’t fit into my sleeve.

The rest of February blurs into memories of pain pills, a cold arm, voice-dictated emails and Word documents or typing with one hand, working extra hard all day to get less done than normal. I couldn’t even do Ctl+C or any other shortcuts with my left hand so I got used to doing them with my right.  I didn’t do anything for Lent because my cast was enough suffering. I’d collapse on the couch in the evening and manage to get back to work every morning. And I drank lots and lots of tea. And I was very thankful that I’m right-handed, even though that hand got so, so tired doing all the things. Sweet cards from friends came in the mail, wishing me quick healing. One friend sent a box with all kinds of treasures squished into it. My housemate tied my shoes for me until I learned how, and did all the house chores that required two strong hands.

Also.

After two weeks, the specialist I was dubious about said I didn’t need surgery, which seems like an enormous miracle, the way the breaks slanted.

Also.

There were sweet moments of beautiful reprieve sprinkled throughout the month. Two nights a week, I joined a writing class on Zoom with a teacher in Thailand. We crossed 12 time zones and bonded over beautiful words and still stay in touch. The classes helped to keep putting words on paper instead of spiraling down into pain and boredom. At the end, our teacher wrote verses about each of us, and mine seems to say more than she knew.

 

 

Also.

I  got to go to Lancaster to a writers and artists’ conference and met one of my favorite poets. I don’t have words for how special it was to love Malcolm Guite’s poetry, and then to hear him recite his own poems and give some of their backstory. He was uncommonly gracious and accommodating. “And you hurt your arm,” he commented after we posed. I’m proud of this picture, except for the plastic bag. Hearing him speak about the way he respects words and lets them do their work was a concept I want to keep. The warm experiences of my old and new friends sharing that rich weekend still gives me deep joy.

After three weeks in a cast, my wrist swelled and my fingers got tingly, and I was terrified about nerve damage. Orthopedics assessed it and after a technician sawed off the cast, she motioned to a sink and told me I could wash my hand, and then she left the room. I washed and washed, and wiped and wiped the weak, wrinkled hand and arm for a long, long time. It felt like something rubbery that could maybe come alive again. They sent me to an occupational therapist who fitted me carefully with a removable brace. The therapist was the most delightful, positive, helpful person I’d met in that department. She made my whole month better.

I had the brace for five weeks with instructions for no weight-bearing. The tingling went away, and the daily exercises went better every day. I’d sit on Zoom or in classes practicing my stretches and fists. And I could type with two hands! I could get so much work done with so little effort! I kept the arm elevated as much as possible every day and every night. It made for many praise sessions in the car as I drove. If your hand is raised anyhow, it’s a good time to pray and praise.

But the body remembers, and many times as I walked home on the gravel path and across the little dip where the ice had been, my gut felt shivery and shaky, remembering the spot where the trauma happened.

The day the specialist signed off on me and said I’m good to go, I got a large Coke to celebrate. I wanted to cheer for my brave little wrist that was able to hold a whole full glass all by itself. The golden arches in the mirror was a happy accident.

Gradually, I wore the brace less and less. My wrist still catches me by surprise: my left hand can open a whole heavy door all by itself! I can carry a laundry basket in one hand and a laundry rack in the other. This is a remarkably efficient way to do laundry. I can wash dishes and sweep the floor again, and my hand does what I ask it to even though it’s stiff and aches every day.

One of the first weeks free from the brace, I was washing dishes at a friend’s house and broke THREE cups with my uncoordinated left hand that crashed things. I still feel awful about it. I kept thinking about stroke victims and others who have to build a life around a dysfunctional limb. I had learned ways to manage my handicap, but it took enormous energy, focus, and creativity to compensate. Plus, after that first terrible weekend alone, I had willing people around me to help with anything I couldn’t manage.

I hesitated putting this story out there because it could seem too much like a great-aunt’s organ recital. But the nice thing about a blog is that no one has to read it and no one is watching you delete it from your inbox. But for those still reading: I haven’t come to profound conclusions and life lessons about this story. For now, I’m acknowledging the crazy mix of hard and good, loss and gifts poured out, privilege and disappointment.

Apparently, life is never all one or the other.

Comfort and Forgive

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Recently I’ve been lingering in Psalm 25, particularly verse 18: “Look upon my affliction and my distress [I need comfort.] and take away all my sins [I need forgiveness.]” This pairs with the gospel song with line “He took my sins and my sorrows.”

At the cross, we find both comfort for what’s been done to us and forgiveness for the wrong we’ve done. Beyond that, there’s more at the empty tomb, which I’m still exploring.

Last week one morning, this acrostic poem seeped out of my pen. And yes, I’m reading The Hobbit right now, so that found its way onto some lines as well.

Come closer, friend and savior Jesus
Or I will
Move off the path to where
Foul goblins lurk to
Overwhelm my heart. I want to walk with You to
Rivendell where
Time slows and music lingers in the leaves

And cake and wine heap up but
Not too much to long for more.
Desire and dust

Fill my mouth and still holy water
Offerings will never ever wash or
Rinse the dust and
Grime and wrinkled skin of
Inconvenient, stubborn
Vices
Except you hold my hand and clean and caress each crevice.

After Saturday Night

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Photo by Łukasz Łada on Unsplash

He saw me first.

I saw a garden hand

With grass-pressed tunic,

Soil on toes,

Eyes at ease with a job well done.

He saw my tears yet didn’t flinch—

No garden hand had ever asked me

About that water swelling

In stormy cataracts on cheeks.

They’d taken my Love—He’s

Broken, stabbed, now stolen.

My love is gone, is gone, and

I would wail and run

Five thousand furlongs if only this garden man

Confides to me the hiding place that

Holds my love, my broken love.

He said my name, my truest word:

Mary, once bitter, now sweet.

He was a garden man, but

More—the one I’d lost. I knew

Him by that voice and by

Those eyes, new, knowing.

They caught the morning light and

Calmed my own frantic, swollen ones.

Where had He been? What ablutions

Rinsed crusted blood and water from olive skin and linen?

What had He seen and how did this morning’s Father

Turn toward yesterday’s forsaken Son?

What words had made my sad untrue?

Quiet mystery surrounded, hovered, haloed Him—this

Garden-loving, light-bearing frame of holed and holy clay.

He didn’t tell me where He’d been. (He never tells me everything.)

The rose-gold sky back-lit His frame.

My Love

Had found me first

Again.

A Blessing For This Weekend

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Photo by Achim Ruhnau on Unsplash

May you see spring birds puffed up on branches to stay warm as they forage seeds, and may it remind you that God provides and cares even more for you. May you see diamonds in rain drops on buds and leaves. May your baby plants flourish with the promise that summer is coming.

May the weekend give you golden moments to be less efficient and more human, and may your inefficiency include walks in blowing snow and naps in warm blankets and conversations in real time. May someone hear your heart under your words, and may you listen to someone else in a way that helps them feel less alone.

May the strong arms of God, the compassion of Jesus, and the comfort of the Holy Spirit hold you.

A Benediction for Your Weekend

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Because I believe that Christians should be people of benediction (bene: good + diction: speaking) here’s one for your weekend. I hope to be dropping benedictions here and there (blog, social media, cards) the next while.

May sweet, glad birdsong surprise you on your walks. May golden light highlight greens and whites, and if golden light isn’t happening today, may it fall on you sometime this week. May you eat enough fluffy carbs to make your soul happy, and enough protein to make your brain strong.

May your bones not break, and if they do, may you receive so much support and care that it makes you cry. May your grey hair stay well camouflaged, and if they spiral out in odd angles, may you remember all the goodness that brought you to this good age. May you take time for at least two naps.

May your heroes be people who love God supremely, love you like Jesus, and make you a better person. May the skin tones you see and the languages you hear give you a sneak peak of our eternal home and the wedding feast that will never end.

 

A List of Lists

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Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

I am not one of those organized people who makes lists in order to feel good about their day. I hear them talking about writing a task on a list so they feel happy crossing it off, but I can’t identify with that.

However, I’ve discovered a way making lists that is enormously satisfying. I’m taking a 10-week writing course with the inimitable Rachel Devenish Ford. Twice a week, we meet over zoom, a dozen ladies across as many time zones, and Rachel, in Thailand’s sunshine, coaches us in writing from the heart. One way to write is to make lists, and then craft paragraphs from those lists.

The exercise reminded me of several years ago when I had an overwhelming decision to make, and I was paralyzed with fears. My pastor said I should list those fears. When I did, the fears suddenly didn’t feel so big or so many. Since then, I’ve often handed the same advice to someone who was overwhelmed. When they have too much on their mind and their nervous system is overloaded, writing a list is something they can manage.

It also reminds me of how I’ve kept a Thanks Journal for years, which is a daily list of something to be thankful for, some points of light to remember. It’s not eloquent or poetic. It’s quick and minimal but enough.

The beauty about lists is that they can be spare, ragged, choppy, and incomplete, but they carry the essence of what we want to express. In our writing course with Rachel, we’ve made lists about these subjects:

  • Who I am
  • What I notice in a favorite photo
  • The kinds of writing I feel the most drawn to
  • What I notice where I’m sitting (I had never noticed that I have green dolphins at my desk until I made a list of what I noticed.)
  • Impactful moments
  • What we want
  • What we have (I noticed that my want list included only one thing that costs money. Right afterward, Rachel coached us to list what we have, and I choked up because I have. So. Much.)
  • What we’ve learned

Some days, I amuse myself by thinking about all the fun lists I could make. Here is a list I could list:

  • Beautiful things
  • What I noticed in church today (includes many colors because that’s what I notice)
  • Things to do with one arm in a cast
  • Distractions
  • Cool things about living in America (could include interstate highways and pancakes the size of dinnerplates)
  • Uncool things about America (could include synthetically fragranced fabric softeners)
  • What I love about my people
  • Reasons to cry
  • Topics I could write about
  • Why I can’t write
  • Favorite parts of favorite books
  • Memorable meals
  • Heavenly fragrances (would not include fabric softener)
  • What I like about my age
  • Ways people have helped me
  • Lovely sounds (would include rain on a metal roof)

You might try this yourself. If writing a blog post or a poem or a letter feels like too much investment, or too weighty, try making a list and see where it takes you.

At the very least, you might surprise yourself at what you notice and what you have.