Category Archives: Presence

Come and see 

I found myself saying this phrase today. It was couched in an afternoon so thick with redemption that you could smell Jesus.

He’s crazy like that, you know. 

Crazy enough to bring together a babysitter and  a little girl, now in grown up bodies, to share story. 

Stories of Harm, and stories of goodness, with silly stories of the every day mixed between. 

History, we call it; the stories of Long Ago. This was a space for “her-story”. Infinitely more sacred, and raw and it’s beauty and pain. 

These two crazy fishermen were talking one day. Probably the one was asking the other why in the world he had given up the business, when it had been in the family for generations. And all that, to follow a new guy in town that people said was crazy?! Definitely illegitimate at the very least. And in a place where bloodlines matter, that was unforgivable.

And what did the smelly fisherman say?

Come. And. See. 


Photo:  

aspen circle near snow bowl, Flagstaff, Arizona 


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Morning musings

I don’t like mornings. 

Never have. Never (?) will. 

But I have two kids who have run cross country. And babies who like to greet their mamas (and the midwife) as the sun comes up. 

I used to work nights, as a nurse. It wasn’t all bad. I would go to bed as other people got up. And on the off nights I could stay up as late as possible. 

It generally takes me an hour to reconcile myself to the inevitable reality that the day has begun. Once I am past that, I feel quite cheerful. 

Sone people like sunrises; I prefer sunsets. I would like sunrises, I think, if they showed up at a different time of day. 

Today I walked while the kids ran. I am up to more than half a mile! If you know the long story, that in itself is a miracle. 

I saw tiny purple flowers, unnoticed amidst the grass. Four raindrops hit me. (In the desert?!) And when I sat under a tree to rest, I saw this on the ground beneath my feet. 

And so for today, I am grateful. 
To be up. To be able to walk. To be alive. To see. 

Enjoy your morning!

Letting go 

Yes, We stand alongside, lending support, and each one has to face her fears, find her courage and let go. 

Wise words from my midwife sister and friend. Words for the midwife, although they sound like they are for the mama. 

This is the work, isn’t it? Not just the work of having a baby; but the work of life. And I need others in this journey. To remind me of truth; to draw me back to trust.

The Advent Writings:  may the carols come true 

Truly He taught us to love one another,   His law is love and His gospel is peace. Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother. And in his name all oppression shall cease. 

The lyrics from Oh holy night are my heart cry this year. For myself, in this home; and in our land. Never have I been so aware of a time where fear and hatred rule the day. 

I picked up tamales tonight from a dear one this afternoon and felt  the terror looming for the uncertainty of the change if power in January. And so we eat them, recognizing that this gift is as sacred as the breaking of the bread. These are our brothers and sisters who awake each day in fear. This is My Body, broken….

And so tonight we remember an immigrant family long ago would flee to Egypt the day after the baby was born. Not what I would recommend for one day postpartum as a midwife!

I am deeply aware as well of my own need this year. The car accident a year ago represented for me the fragility of life. And the shockwaves that continue to move out from that day keep it in front of me. 

And so for tonight, I will hold the goodness of the traditions that weave the years together. We are family, in the middle of.

And so, I will go to the airport and our nest will be full. And we will welcome the night with pajamas and the morning with cinnamon rolls, hot from the oven. 

We will eat our tamales, and give thanks, and cry for mercy. 

The Advent Writings: a seed

Darkness and Light. 

Waiting and Coming. 

Sorrow and Hope. 

Death and …

We hold so much at Christmas. All of that not knowing, together with the not yet. 

I am a desert girl, mostly. A turtleneck in the morning, just because. And then a/c when kids get in the car. Desert kids don’t understand winter. Therefore, they can’t know the mystery of spring, of green shoots pushing up through the snow. In Phoenix, we force bulbs. We put them in the refrigerator drawer for “winter” and then take them out to let them know it’s spring. A tiny shoot begins, stretching up bit by bit, reaching for the light. 

I am still sitting with this poem I shared recently, letting it work it’s way in deeper, one line at a time. Today it’s the “tiny shoot”. 

The poem was born from a midwife (Advent, by Sister Christine Schenk). 

I wait

With quickened hope

For crooked paths to straighten,

With tough-soul’d anguish,

While blinded 

Keepers of the keys 

Cut off

God’s own. 

(If such a thing were possible). 

I wait, 

And will not be 

dismayed. 

For tiny shoot 

Of Jesse tree

Took root in me. 

To love, 

Transform,

Give sight, 

Set free. 


The tiny shoot. 

In me. 

Reaching, 

Stretching,

Growing;

Toward the light. 


The Advent Writings: the candle of hope 

Hope is a fragile thing. 

I was asked by my counselor (who specializes in disruptive questions):  “Do you have hope?”  My knee jerk response was, “I don’t want to jinx it.”  I regretted that response. She pursued my heart in kind and bold ways, and I left that fall Phoenix day feeling small and very stirred. 

At every turn that week the word jumped out at me, inviting me farther in. Ericka shared at Neighborhood that week from this passage about the longings of immigrants: for something better, for a home, for a place to belong. 

 Each one of these people of faith died not yet having in hand what was promised, but still believing. How did they do it? They saw it way off in the distance, waved their greeting, and accepted the fact that they were transients in this world. People who live this way make it plain that they are looking for their true home. If they were homesick for the old country, they could have gone back any time they wanted. But they were after a far better country than that—heaven country. You can see why God is so proud of them, and has a City waiting for them.  (Hebrews 11:13-16)

Other translations say that God was not ashamed to be called their God. The alien, the stranger in the land. The ones who never got what they hoped for. Not ashamed. 

One of those crazy passages on suffering that got a bit warped in my growing up years says something similar:

because we know that suffering produces perseverance; 4 perseverance, character; and character, hope. 5 And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us. (Romans 5:3-5). 

Hope. It doesn’t put me to shame. Shame I understand, the Journey Mate of a wounded child. Ca-Ching.  God is not ashamed. 

I got it. 

Hope has nothing to do with getting what I hope for. That’s a terrifying relief. Over and over as I wrestle I see two resting places.

       God is present. God is good. 

Nothing more. 

And these I know. I have walked the inky blackness of suffering. I have plumbed the depths of these words. 

Today we lit the light of the prophets, the candle of hope. 

So yes, to answer the question, 

I have hope. 

Word crafting 

My daughter wrote in her journal tonight. The idea she was chasing is that when I write I express the image of God.

It made me think. What does it mean when “Word” is used to express a name for God. Is writing part of that expression of the very reality of being made in His image?

When I began  to write, I would sometimes say that I was writing because it was the only thing on my list of “things I will never do” that I had not done. Here is the list: foster care, adoption, homebirth, women’s groups, writing.  (If you know me at all, you are probably laughing about now). 🙄

So on the light of that list, and the humor of God, sometimes I joked that I started to write because it was inevitable. But I think that this reflection calls to me in a tender  way;  in simplicity and truth.

There are  words inside of me that long for expression. Perhaps that is part of how I am made, to express an Image.  When I write, I am  reflecting something bigger.

And so, I write.

Coming home

A daughter came home today. I watched for her face in a crowd of strangers. I strained to see her, the anticipation rising in my soul. I felt the sheer delight burst through my spirit as I saw her, and hugged her tight.

I saw a friend once, so precious to my heart, moments after she passed into the Mystery. Her face held that same longing, that delight, like she had just seen someone for whom she had been longing all her life.

I just finished re-reading Frederick Beuchner’s A Sacred Journey:  “we must learn to listen to the cock crows and hammering and tick-tock of our lives for the holy and elusive word that is spoken to us out of their depths.” 

There was a moment when we were all sitting and braiding hair this weekend, a mother and two of her daughters. And for an elusive breath of time I saw the holy. 

 

After the rain 

You don’t treasure rain until you have lived in the desert. The heat rises so intensely that it is palpable. You know the feeling you get when you open the door of the oven to check the cookies? That’s Arizona, every time you open the car door. “Why oh why do we live in an oven?”  One daughter’s query when returning from South Anerica left us all laughing. Why indeed?!

And then the monsoons come. The humidity rises (not like the Midwest) and temperature drops. 108′ and a little sticky; better then 118′, maybe. Whispers of wind tease us, clouds build up every afternoon. Up north, it rains every day, til the pine trees glisten. Here, heat lightning clears the city pools, teasing us from afar. 

Pink from city lights, the clouds glow every few minutes with the lightning. Thunder rumbles in the distance, not quite close enough. 
And then it comes, smell first. Then the wind, stirring the leaves of the eucalyptus. Rain begins to fall, softly sometimes, pounding the sidewalk and flooding the streets at others. In Arizona, we run outside in the rain. “Puddle-stomping” barefoot kids march up and down the edge of streets. Windows open, porch rockers sway in rhythm as neighbor’s emerge. 

Maybe this is what hope looks like. Maybe it smells like the desert after the rain. 

Maybe it smells like Jesus.