The Piano
We now have a piano. We bought it last night from Steve and Yvette. Kenny and Dave were strong and kind enough to help Gregg bring it home. It needs some tuning but it is beautiful. I have always wanted a piano because everyone gets a little friendlier when they are around one.
Ever since I can remember, my sister has had a piano in her home. Her daughters have been raised on it and play well. When I go to her house for special occasions, Caitlin plays her latest violin piece and her cousins play from their repertoire. The piano is a part of the family. There have been times when my sister didn’t know where the rent would come from and it looked like the family spinnet would have to be sacrificed, but somehow something came through, the piano was spared and has played a role in making my nieces who they are.
Now, as the newest family member sits adjusting to its new surroundings, I can’t help but be a little foolish as I fascinate about maybe hearing Bronwyn(or Caitlin) play Chopin one day. Or, maybe we might have some “family sing alongs", singing hymns, show tunes, Christmas Carols and Elton John hits as we forget about our troubles and tin ears. But for now, I must settle for Bronwyn’s and Caitlin’s original compositions and a little less quiet.
Monday, June 21, 2004
The Language of Abandonment
Wonderful things were spoken last night at Apex. It felt as if I was someone who had been in a foreign land for a long time and suddenly heard my mother tongue spoken. It was familiar and affirming to me and very strengthening.
Maybe that is what the foreigners felt when they heard the Apostles speaking of the wonders of God in their own tongue while they were visiting Jerusalem…..I don’t know.
The language of abandonment to Jesus is rarely heard these days and if you ever have lived in a foreign country rarely hearing or getting the opportunity to communicate in your tongue, you know how lonely it can be.
Wonderful things were spoken last night at Apex. It felt as if I was someone who had been in a foreign land for a long time and suddenly heard my mother tongue spoken. It was familiar and affirming to me and very strengthening.
Maybe that is what the foreigners felt when they heard the Apostles speaking of the wonders of God in their own tongue while they were visiting Jerusalem…..I don’t know.
The language of abandonment to Jesus is rarely heard these days and if you ever have lived in a foreign country rarely hearing or getting the opportunity to communicate in your tongue, you know how lonely it can be.
Friday, June 18, 2004
A Long Obedience in the Same Direction
That is a title to a book that just got to me. Sometime in the future I will read that book. Books help me. I guess the words struck me because I have been teaching ancient history at home to the girls studying the journey of how nomadic people on different continents wandered foraging and following their food supply until they settled near the great rivers and eventually became highly developed civilizations. It is in man to desire and create abundance for himself.
Once the nomads could find easier ways to supply food, they had time to devote themselves to activities that make a culture a culture, and did they ever do that! When the earth produced plenty, they built architectural wonders to worship numerous invented gods, created writing systems, had flushing toilets and running water for goodness sakes, had art, music, established complex governmental systems and even had a couple of good old fashion wars to see who would be top banana.
One of those civilizations was the Sumerians who were amazingly sophisticated and far from their ancestral traditions of living in tents or caves following their breakfast lunch and dinner.... and it is from this empire of human achievement that Abraham received the unique call to leave one father and one country returning to his nomadic roots not just to survive, but to become a pilgrim son to another Father. He walked away from the realm which glorified human effort to follow the promise of another. And of course, you know the rest of the story...the story of a long obedience in the same direction. History doesn’t really change, does it?
That is a title to a book that just got to me. Sometime in the future I will read that book. Books help me. I guess the words struck me because I have been teaching ancient history at home to the girls studying the journey of how nomadic people on different continents wandered foraging and following their food supply until they settled near the great rivers and eventually became highly developed civilizations. It is in man to desire and create abundance for himself.
Once the nomads could find easier ways to supply food, they had time to devote themselves to activities that make a culture a culture, and did they ever do that! When the earth produced plenty, they built architectural wonders to worship numerous invented gods, created writing systems, had flushing toilets and running water for goodness sakes, had art, music, established complex governmental systems and even had a couple of good old fashion wars to see who would be top banana.
One of those civilizations was the Sumerians who were amazingly sophisticated and far from their ancestral traditions of living in tents or caves following their breakfast lunch and dinner.... and it is from this empire of human achievement that Abraham received the unique call to leave one father and one country returning to his nomadic roots not just to survive, but to become a pilgrim son to another Father. He walked away from the realm which glorified human effort to follow the promise of another. And of course, you know the rest of the story...the story of a long obedience in the same direction. History doesn’t really change, does it?
Monday, June 14, 2004
By the way,
This story is laugh out loud funny and was an inspiration in getting enough guts to suggest a writing club.
This story is laugh out loud funny and was an inspiration in getting enough guts to suggest a writing club.
Writing Club
I wanted to know if there was anyone out there in the community interested in starting a writing club. I would host it at my house. It would not have to be there on a consistent basis either. We could also meet at the library or other location. Some thoughts I had for the format are inspired by the book, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. My e-mail is hisheidi@cox.net if you are interested.
I wanted to know if there was anyone out there in the community interested in starting a writing club. I would host it at my house. It would not have to be there on a consistent basis either. We could also meet at the library or other location. Some thoughts I had for the format are inspired by the book, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. My e-mail is hisheidi@cox.net if you are interested.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Kitchen Sink Lessons
Within your four walls there are places (at least for me) which are teaching places, worship places and resting places. Today I want to talk about my kitchen sink; It a teaching space. When I am at the kitchen sink, many of my unlovely characteristics spew forth. Sometimes out loud (to the pain of those within earshot) and sometimes I clink and clank dishes to the music of an inner, raging boil. Maybe the sink is one of God’s chosen places for me to learn because as I settle to the mundane tasks which meet me there, I repeatedly play false tapes, relive unfulfilled expectations and experience the darkness of my nature. I seem to become aware of a spiritual battle in this “holy place.” I am not saying this is the only geography that my falleness confronts me, or that I could just hate washing dishes, what I am trying to say is the sink is my “Peniel” where God regularly wrestles me. I seem to be challenged to surrender and come away with a deeper acceptance and love for Him.
I want to share a lesson that began in January when I was given a Hyacinth bulb as a gift. I placed it on the window sill at my kitchen sink. The bulb was a daily testimony as it developed in various stages from a green tip piercing the soil to a full puff of shameless perfumed blooms that overwhelmed me every time I approached my teaching spot. This planting brought Mark, chapter four verses twenty-six through twenty-nine to life for me.
A great portion of the life of this bulb appeared to be spent as blunt green protrusions which revealed little information of the true form it would take. Little of its life was spent displaying itself as a thick column of singular cotton candy flowers celebrating early spring. Its seemingly boring protrusional stages brought comments like...When are we going to see the flowers??...That’s it, that’s a Hyacinth?.... How much longer until it’s a real flower??? I always thought it interesting that I was totally powerless to force what would only come when the Husbandman was ready. If I had the power to do that, it would be false...evil.
My part in the life of the bulb was a surrender to the life process of a Hyacinth and a commitment to place a small amount of water in its soil each day and open the blinds...pretty simple really. However, many times I felt impatient with the slow growth, thinking, maybe it’s a dud. Often, I forgot my watering commitment because of the pace of the day and many times there were too many impatient little hands willing to help and the bulb became waterlogged. Yet, in some great providence, the plant was able to do what it was told to in spite of over or under commitment.
One of the happiest times while learning, was when I could see at the center of the protrusions the slightest hint of pink breaking out on a pale green cone. That was when I knew the promises would come and my bulb seemed most alive. It was hope. I didn’t have to see the full flower to know the beauty was there.
So many of my dear friends seem to be in the stages of ‘boring protrusions’ and others may be asking them where the heck is the flower, or they may be asking themselves....."Maybe I am just a dud, or worse, not a flower at all." I think we need to remember that flowers, though fragrant and a splendid show, are short lived and pale to the hidden life that actually produces them. This is a mystery that needs to be appreciated and accepted; especially by ones who only believe in flowers. My little bulb now rests quietly under a tree with heaven's potential in its now unattractive form. I have all but forgotten it but the Husbandman has not. This is what really matters most.
Obscurity is where all the life is happening---- it is the Kingdom. We must believe in the hidden life of all things. We are challenged to be committed when life feels like a boring formless protrusions. We are to hope in the mystery of the mundane and the slow to show. We are not to attempt the forcing of flowers to parade some outward effect for others or our impatient selves to see. That would be false....evil
Seeds become flowers, seeds become trees but "it is," as Oswald Chambers said, “in the innermost of the innermost that reveals the power of the life”. A little Hyacinth bulb on a kitchen windowsill proved that true.
"Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how."
Jesus
Mark 4:27
Within your four walls there are places (at least for me) which are teaching places, worship places and resting places. Today I want to talk about my kitchen sink; It a teaching space. When I am at the kitchen sink, many of my unlovely characteristics spew forth. Sometimes out loud (to the pain of those within earshot) and sometimes I clink and clank dishes to the music of an inner, raging boil. Maybe the sink is one of God’s chosen places for me to learn because as I settle to the mundane tasks which meet me there, I repeatedly play false tapes, relive unfulfilled expectations and experience the darkness of my nature. I seem to become aware of a spiritual battle in this “holy place.” I am not saying this is the only geography that my falleness confronts me, or that I could just hate washing dishes, what I am trying to say is the sink is my “Peniel” where God regularly wrestles me. I seem to be challenged to surrender and come away with a deeper acceptance and love for Him.
I want to share a lesson that began in January when I was given a Hyacinth bulb as a gift. I placed it on the window sill at my kitchen sink. The bulb was a daily testimony as it developed in various stages from a green tip piercing the soil to a full puff of shameless perfumed blooms that overwhelmed me every time I approached my teaching spot. This planting brought Mark, chapter four verses twenty-six through twenty-nine to life for me.
A great portion of the life of this bulb appeared to be spent as blunt green protrusions which revealed little information of the true form it would take. Little of its life was spent displaying itself as a thick column of singular cotton candy flowers celebrating early spring. Its seemingly boring protrusional stages brought comments like...When are we going to see the flowers??...That’s it, that’s a Hyacinth?.... How much longer until it’s a real flower??? I always thought it interesting that I was totally powerless to force what would only come when the Husbandman was ready. If I had the power to do that, it would be false...evil.
My part in the life of the bulb was a surrender to the life process of a Hyacinth and a commitment to place a small amount of water in its soil each day and open the blinds...pretty simple really. However, many times I felt impatient with the slow growth, thinking, maybe it’s a dud. Often, I forgot my watering commitment because of the pace of the day and many times there were too many impatient little hands willing to help and the bulb became waterlogged. Yet, in some great providence, the plant was able to do what it was told to in spite of over or under commitment.
One of the happiest times while learning, was when I could see at the center of the protrusions the slightest hint of pink breaking out on a pale green cone. That was when I knew the promises would come and my bulb seemed most alive. It was hope. I didn’t have to see the full flower to know the beauty was there.
So many of my dear friends seem to be in the stages of ‘boring protrusions’ and others may be asking them where the heck is the flower, or they may be asking themselves....."Maybe I am just a dud, or worse, not a flower at all." I think we need to remember that flowers, though fragrant and a splendid show, are short lived and pale to the hidden life that actually produces them. This is a mystery that needs to be appreciated and accepted; especially by ones who only believe in flowers. My little bulb now rests quietly under a tree with heaven's potential in its now unattractive form. I have all but forgotten it but the Husbandman has not. This is what really matters most.
Obscurity is where all the life is happening---- it is the Kingdom. We must believe in the hidden life of all things. We are challenged to be committed when life feels like a boring formless protrusions. We are to hope in the mystery of the mundane and the slow to show. We are not to attempt the forcing of flowers to parade some outward effect for others or our impatient selves to see. That would be false....evil
Seeds become flowers, seeds become trees but "it is," as Oswald Chambers said, “in the innermost of the innermost that reveals the power of the life”. A little Hyacinth bulb on a kitchen windowsill proved that true.
"Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how."
Jesus
Mark 4:27
Friday, June 04, 2004
Today I celebrate 20 years of marriage. I found this poem written by someone else but the words are what I am feeling today.
We've traveled several rocky roads together.
Sometimes I didn't think we'd get this far.
Three children and twenty-five years later
We're more a couple than we ever were.
Years of trying polished off the edges
Because we both possessed the will to try.
What we got is one of life's great treasures:
A garden on the shifting sands of time.
Love demands a kind of self-surrender
That sometimes is with difficulty won.
All who join in marriage must endeavor
To make another's happiness their own.
This sacrifice quite often seems so easy,
But day by day and year by year it's not.
Trust enables one to love completely,
Living with one's charity unlocked.
Our love is like a deep and verdant valley
Nestled in the mountains of desire.
Though all of life's a dream that passes quickly,
We've made a place among the circling stars
Funny, in addition to this poem, the scene from Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail where Indiana has to choose the cup of Jesus from hundreds of others keeps popping in my head as I ponder my marriage. He has one chance to drink from the real cup or be be destroyed. He chooses the most humble one, drinks and is rewarded by the words of the Knight guarding the grail... "You have chosen wisely."
We've traveled several rocky roads together.
Sometimes I didn't think we'd get this far.
Three children and twenty-five years later
We're more a couple than we ever were.
Years of trying polished off the edges
Because we both possessed the will to try.
What we got is one of life's great treasures:
A garden on the shifting sands of time.
Love demands a kind of self-surrender
That sometimes is with difficulty won.
All who join in marriage must endeavor
To make another's happiness their own.
This sacrifice quite often seems so easy,
But day by day and year by year it's not.
Trust enables one to love completely,
Living with one's charity unlocked.
Our love is like a deep and verdant valley
Nestled in the mountains of desire.
Though all of life's a dream that passes quickly,
We've made a place among the circling stars
Funny, in addition to this poem, the scene from Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail where Indiana has to choose the cup of Jesus from hundreds of others keeps popping in my head as I ponder my marriage. He has one chance to drink from the real cup or be be destroyed. He chooses the most humble one, drinks and is rewarded by the words of the Knight guarding the grail... "You have chosen wisely."
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Springtime
The Late Singer
Here it is spring again
and I still a young man!
I am late at my singing.
The sparrow with the black rain on his breast
has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:
What is it that is dragging at my heart?
The grass by the back door
is stiff with sap.
The old maples are opening
their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
A moon hangs in the blue
in the early afternoons over the marshes.
I am late at my singing
William Carlos Williams
Sometimes poetry says it all.
The Late Singer
Here it is spring again
and I still a young man!
I am late at my singing.
The sparrow with the black rain on his breast
has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:
What is it that is dragging at my heart?
The grass by the back door
is stiff with sap.
The old maples are opening
their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
A moon hangs in the blue
in the early afternoons over the marshes.
I am late at my singing
William Carlos Williams
Sometimes poetry says it all.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
Books
I have appreciated the book lists which were posted by Phil and Greg; many of which I have read and found equally insprational and influential.
I would like to encourage people to read the books they listed ,but also, add a few books that I believe might inspire or encourage. They were great to read as I began a journey initiated by Jesus calling me off the Christian Bandwagon and placing me under his yoke where I belong. The books are an honest, very non-academic, down to earth spirituality. I have listed them and some quotes.
Soul Survivor: How My faith Survived the Church ,Philip Yancey: Talking about the thirteen people that helped him regain his faith (and what a host of individuals they are and were), Yancy writes, "I became a writer, I now believe, to sort out and reclaim the words used and misused by the Christians of my youth. These are the people ( the thirteen) who ushered me into the Kingdom. In many ways they are why I remain a Christian today, and I want to introduce them to other spiritual seekers.
Messy Spirituality, Mike Yaconelli: Spirituality is not a formula; it is a relationship. Spirituality is not about competency; it is about intimacy. Spirituality is not about perfection; it is about connection. The way of the spiritual life begins where we are now in the mess of our lives. Accepting the reality of our broken, flawed lives is the beginning of spirituality not because the spiritual life will remove our flaws, but because we let go of seeking perfection and, instead, seek God, the one who is present in the tangledness of our lives. ( this man was so precious, he recently died in an auto accident.... I wish I had known him.)
Seeing God in the Ordinary; A theology of the everyday: Michael Frost ( I love this book and recommend it to other Bohemians especially ones bringing the poerty of the gospel to dark places): " The gospel is......a truth widely held, but a truth greatly reduced. It is a truth that has been flattened, trivialized and rendered inane. Partly, the gospel is simply an old habit among us, neither valued or questioned. But more than that, our technical way of thinking reduces mystery to problem, transforms assurance into certitude, quality into quantity and so takes the categories of biblical faith and represents them into manageable shapes. (Frost quoting Brueggemann).
Oh and by the way......the fog is lifting
I have appreciated the book lists which were posted by Phil and Greg; many of which I have read and found equally insprational and influential.
I would like to encourage people to read the books they listed ,but also, add a few books that I believe might inspire or encourage. They were great to read as I began a journey initiated by Jesus calling me off the Christian Bandwagon and placing me under his yoke where I belong. The books are an honest, very non-academic, down to earth spirituality. I have listed them and some quotes.
Soul Survivor: How My faith Survived the Church ,Philip Yancey: Talking about the thirteen people that helped him regain his faith (and what a host of individuals they are and were), Yancy writes, "I became a writer, I now believe, to sort out and reclaim the words used and misused by the Christians of my youth. These are the people ( the thirteen) who ushered me into the Kingdom. In many ways they are why I remain a Christian today, and I want to introduce them to other spiritual seekers.
Messy Spirituality, Mike Yaconelli: Spirituality is not a formula; it is a relationship. Spirituality is not about competency; it is about intimacy. Spirituality is not about perfection; it is about connection. The way of the spiritual life begins where we are now in the mess of our lives. Accepting the reality of our broken, flawed lives is the beginning of spirituality not because the spiritual life will remove our flaws, but because we let go of seeking perfection and, instead, seek God, the one who is present in the tangledness of our lives. ( this man was so precious, he recently died in an auto accident.... I wish I had known him.)
Seeing God in the Ordinary; A theology of the everyday: Michael Frost ( I love this book and recommend it to other Bohemians especially ones bringing the poerty of the gospel to dark places): " The gospel is......a truth widely held, but a truth greatly reduced. It is a truth that has been flattened, trivialized and rendered inane. Partly, the gospel is simply an old habit among us, neither valued or questioned. But more than that, our technical way of thinking reduces mystery to problem, transforms assurance into certitude, quality into quantity and so takes the categories of biblical faith and represents them into manageable shapes. (Frost quoting Brueggemann).
Oh and by the way......the fog is lifting
Friday, January 23, 2004
A picture
I frequently check the shelves of the used book section at the Summerlin library. It is amazing what patience and persistence has brought to me as a reward . One of my great finds was a book of Carl Sandburg's poetry. It cost me a dime and has given me some moments of pleasure. As I glanced through it today, I came across one of his more famous poems: Fog. Whether meant to be or not, It paints a metaphorical picture of how I experience cyclothymic-depression. The picture is neither good , bad nor to be judged by me or any other individual-----it simply is.
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over the harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
I have lived through many fogs.
I frequently check the shelves of the used book section at the Summerlin library. It is amazing what patience and persistence has brought to me as a reward . One of my great finds was a book of Carl Sandburg's poetry. It cost me a dime and has given me some moments of pleasure. As I glanced through it today, I came across one of his more famous poems: Fog. Whether meant to be or not, It paints a metaphorical picture of how I experience cyclothymic-depression. The picture is neither good , bad nor to be judged by me or any other individual-----it simply is.
Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over the harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
I have lived through many fogs.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
You are cordially invited to a party (please read the fine print)
If you received that invitation from me and then at the bottom, in fine print, it said the theme of the party was a pity party with me as the guest of honor would you come? No you would not, because no matter how great the decorations, food or location the baggage attached would turn the dip and champagne into bitter swill.
That is exactly how I feel about gifts that come with baggage. Is a trip with all expenses paid to paradise a gift if you will have to endure dysfunction, awkwardness and be with out those who bring the only meaning in your life?
Is it a gift to sit in a café in France with someone who will only complain about the brie being too dry? No, some times to have a stale crust of bread in peace and meaningful companionship instead of a steak in paradise with strife and ulterior motives is a much better gift. I am sick to death of so called opportunities that come with conditions.
Fine Print: You have just unknowingly been a guest at my pity party. I apologize.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Descending
I guess since my last entry about my belief in hope I am being put to the test as a mild depression seems to be approaching. Since stopping medication for my mood disorder last march--- (A feat I consider, so far, successful as I have not yet been committed and my family seems to be fairly well intact) the way I navigate this territory has taken on a fairly routine rhythm. I make sure to increase gym days…I do more running, take higher doses of certain nutrients, and eat a more restricted diet and lower expectations of energy level as well as other things. Most importantly, I try my best to practice a discipline of crying out to God, a kind of intense (at least more than normal) clinging to Him. I also check all the belief systems of my self talk which becomes very negative, pessimistic and guilt ridden against Jesus himself. It really helps. You can be depressed but you don’t have to believe the lies associated with it.
Oh well, here’s to hope, grace and prayers.
On a less dismal note, my youngest child trying to relieve herself from the boredom of her 2nd grade reader, published by the Amish community, read the story of “Whiskers" the farm’s pet goat in a near perfect imitation of Doug Citizen’s Story Time with Christopher Walken. Today, she will have a comprehension test on the reading. I am curious to see how she does.
I guess since my last entry about my belief in hope I am being put to the test as a mild depression seems to be approaching. Since stopping medication for my mood disorder last march--- (A feat I consider, so far, successful as I have not yet been committed and my family seems to be fairly well intact) the way I navigate this territory has taken on a fairly routine rhythm. I make sure to increase gym days…I do more running, take higher doses of certain nutrients, and eat a more restricted diet and lower expectations of energy level as well as other things. Most importantly, I try my best to practice a discipline of crying out to God, a kind of intense (at least more than normal) clinging to Him. I also check all the belief systems of my self talk which becomes very negative, pessimistic and guilt ridden against Jesus himself. It really helps. You can be depressed but you don’t have to believe the lies associated with it.
Oh well, here’s to hope, grace and prayers.
On a less dismal note, my youngest child trying to relieve herself from the boredom of her 2nd grade reader, published by the Amish community, read the story of “Whiskers" the farm’s pet goat in a near perfect imitation of Doug Citizen’s Story Time with Christopher Walken. Today, she will have a comprehension test on the reading. I am curious to see how she does.
Sunday, January 18, 2004
The Pianist
Some time ago, Joe blogged a reaction to the film The Pianist. It was funny that at the time he and his tribe were watching it at the big house; I was watching it in my very small one, alone. I was so moved by the movie that night; I told Gregg I had to blog my thoughts on it. But Joe had beaten me to it….and shared similar responses which I had as well.
One thing that he didn’t mention, which for me was the crux of the entire film was the music of Chopin. I felt the music, whether it was intended to be or not, symbolized God. It was the unseen yet palpable entity haunting this film. It was the beauty in the main character’s life that drove him to survive.
Since then, I have had the CD (which I bought over a year ago) playing everyday and have watched the movie three times as well. I think this film is really a film about hope and grace. Hope and grace for me are realities that often can only be appreciated when they are cast against a background of darkness and despair. The scene in the movie that so artfully demonstrates this for me is when Szpilman (Main character) plays Chopin for the German officer among the ruins and insanity of war. The beauty of God in that moment rises up leveling delusions of human superiority or domination over another. The two men are in the presence of something far greater and for one sustained moment, God has broken through in the most unlikely surreal moment. That scene is somewhat of a life picture for me of the meaning of hope and grace.
Since before Christmas, I think God has been trying to teach me about hope in very concrete events,,,,this film being one of them. I guess, along with my praises of this movie, and strong suggestion to watch it for anyone who hasn’t, I want to share that hope and grace are profound realities. As I type that sentence, my flesh says how simplistic and overly optimistic, given the headlines and the aging image I see of late in the mirror staring back at me every morning; But my spirit knows otherwise. And I suppose none of the people reading this have ever endured what the man in this movie did, but like him, we have had and are having our share of darkness and despair, but we must stand on the reality, though we lose our balance so easily that God will, at the right time, enter the moment and allow us to hear the music of his essence sustaining our attention in order that we may know that HE IS and we are able to survive
Some time ago, Joe blogged a reaction to the film The Pianist. It was funny that at the time he and his tribe were watching it at the big house; I was watching it in my very small one, alone. I was so moved by the movie that night; I told Gregg I had to blog my thoughts on it. But Joe had beaten me to it….and shared similar responses which I had as well.
One thing that he didn’t mention, which for me was the crux of the entire film was the music of Chopin. I felt the music, whether it was intended to be or not, symbolized God. It was the unseen yet palpable entity haunting this film. It was the beauty in the main character’s life that drove him to survive.
Since then, I have had the CD (which I bought over a year ago) playing everyday and have watched the movie three times as well. I think this film is really a film about hope and grace. Hope and grace for me are realities that often can only be appreciated when they are cast against a background of darkness and despair. The scene in the movie that so artfully demonstrates this for me is when Szpilman (Main character) plays Chopin for the German officer among the ruins and insanity of war. The beauty of God in that moment rises up leveling delusions of human superiority or domination over another. The two men are in the presence of something far greater and for one sustained moment, God has broken through in the most unlikely surreal moment. That scene is somewhat of a life picture for me of the meaning of hope and grace.
Since before Christmas, I think God has been trying to teach me about hope in very concrete events,,,,this film being one of them. I guess, along with my praises of this movie, and strong suggestion to watch it for anyone who hasn’t, I want to share that hope and grace are profound realities. As I type that sentence, my flesh says how simplistic and overly optimistic, given the headlines and the aging image I see of late in the mirror staring back at me every morning; But my spirit knows otherwise. And I suppose none of the people reading this have ever endured what the man in this movie did, but like him, we have had and are having our share of darkness and despair, but we must stand on the reality, though we lose our balance so easily that God will, at the right time, enter the moment and allow us to hear the music of his essence sustaining our attention in order that we may know that HE IS and we are able to survive
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Daddy’s Snow
On December 6, 1998 on a quiet morning, a pure, mystical snow fell. It covered the ground in serene, white completeness. As I watched it fall, my spirit was told to pay attention……this was no ordinary snow.
On that unique Sunday morning five years ago, my stepfather and only person I ever called, "Daddy," was dying. My sister and I had brought him to live with us from Pennsylvania after he reached out in peace following many years of estrangement. “Daddy,” had been for those years, a bad legacy of memories filled with profound alcoholism, gambling, mental, and verbal and at times, physical abuses. Sometimes, however, they were good. He gave the best piggyback rides, took us to fun places, and had a wonderful sense of humor; and now he was totally dependent on our help. The reconciliation was miraculous in itself, but the miracle was yet to unfold.
As the unlikely snow fell, a doctor called me from the hospital to say it would be in Daddy’s best interest to discontinue treatment to prolong his life.
I knew it was over too, and authorized the suggested medical assignments for him. I called my sister and we grieved, especially, because we were not comforted by his eternal destiny.
My sister spent the day with Daddy. As the evening wore on, he grew restless and uncommunicative, in and out of lucidness and hallucination. My sister, Lynn, grew more and more distraught. As she prepared to leave for the evening, a nursing assistant had been assigned to him because of his hallucinatory behavior. She was a small, feisty, black woman, named Bunny and could see that Lynn was upset. Lynn poured out Daddy’s story to her. Bunny took Lynn’s hands and prayed for my sister and Daddy. My sister went home with peace.
She was awakened Monday morning at 6am by a call from Bunny. She said in the middle of the night Daddy became lucid and they began talking. She said, “John you need to make peace with God.” and he said, “I know.” She said, “Lynn, I want you to know your father prayed with me and received Jesus.” She went on to say that after their prayer, he fell asleep and then suddenly awoke and in the darkness she heard him saying the Lord’s prayer and there was peace.
The following day, we admitted Daddy to hospice, still in and out of lucidity, he occasionally spoke to us. But the strange thing is as I left him, that night, he asked, “Can I walk on those steps?” What steps?” I asked. “Those,” he said, pointing to the ceiling of his room. “They look like ice, like crystal…they are beautiful.” Those are the last words I remember. From that day until the morning he died on thursday, he only spoke in his native Polish tongue; it was strange.
That Sunday, following his death, there was a guest speaker at church…and he was speaking about grace. He quoted Isaiah 1:18, “Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord. Though your sins are like scarlet they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson they shall be like wool." And it was then I realized the meaning of the out of the ordinary grace that was falling from the sky that Sunday prior. It was grace falling into Daddy’s life. With that snow came reconciliation, cleanness, utter peace and salvation. It was a Christmas gift to my sister and I beyond measure.
I think about Daddy often, especially at this time of year. I have, however, of late had troubled thoughts and doubts about my miracle those five years ago. Was daddy just delirious? Had Bunny lied? Was it true? I shared my doubts with my sister and confessed I had asked God in my “Heidi way” to reassure me about Daddy by letting it snow that same way again; a pretty frivolous and theologically scandalous request I admit. I told her after I had petitioned Him; I dreamt it snowed on Christmas. But, as we stood in her kitchen Christmas night , rain was the only thing falling from the sky. We drove home and I thanked God anyway for rain on Christmas.
On December 30,2003 at 2:41 am this morning a glow kept awakening me as it crept in through a slit in the drapes. I thought it was the sunrise but it was all wrong since that window faces south. Then I thought in my dozing mind, it looks like a glow from a fire…and then my cat, who is also my personal psyche nurse, began meowing incessantly. I got that feeling I get from the Lord when he says----”Pay attention I have something to say to you.” So I got out of bed to see where the orange glow was coming from. I pulled open the drapes and my backyard was completely blanketed in snow. The trees were bowing from the weight of the whiteness resting on them. It was eerie, mysterious and beautiful at the same time. It was Daddy’s Snow. It was calm, white and quiet. I was overwhelmed by the thought and presence of how good God is. I then remembered how earlier that day I was walking out of the gym and an old man was walking by and said to another man complaining of the cold that it looked like snow. I turned, looked at the old man and he smiled at me.
What peace and calm it was and I was awake and paying attention. I lay on my bed, spoke psalms wept and received the gift that I had asked from Him.
Merry Christmas from the hand of the one I am truly waiting for, the one who fulfills completely. As I write this that snow is melting. My sister said to me this morning how frivolous the love of God is to His children.....she was awakened at 3am by her dog and a glow as well.
I can’t explain this and I must confess that my flesh has tried to quench the gift that came for me in God’s own timing. I can only thank Him and continue to receive his gift of grace, his peace, his calm and to you reading this I want you to know ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE WITH GOD;PAY ATTENTION AND THOUGH IT TARRY, WAIT FOR IT.
On December 6, 1998 on a quiet morning, a pure, mystical snow fell. It covered the ground in serene, white completeness. As I watched it fall, my spirit was told to pay attention……this was no ordinary snow.
On that unique Sunday morning five years ago, my stepfather and only person I ever called, "Daddy," was dying. My sister and I had brought him to live with us from Pennsylvania after he reached out in peace following many years of estrangement. “Daddy,” had been for those years, a bad legacy of memories filled with profound alcoholism, gambling, mental, and verbal and at times, physical abuses. Sometimes, however, they were good. He gave the best piggyback rides, took us to fun places, and had a wonderful sense of humor; and now he was totally dependent on our help. The reconciliation was miraculous in itself, but the miracle was yet to unfold.
As the unlikely snow fell, a doctor called me from the hospital to say it would be in Daddy’s best interest to discontinue treatment to prolong his life.
I knew it was over too, and authorized the suggested medical assignments for him. I called my sister and we grieved, especially, because we were not comforted by his eternal destiny.
My sister spent the day with Daddy. As the evening wore on, he grew restless and uncommunicative, in and out of lucidness and hallucination. My sister, Lynn, grew more and more distraught. As she prepared to leave for the evening, a nursing assistant had been assigned to him because of his hallucinatory behavior. She was a small, feisty, black woman, named Bunny and could see that Lynn was upset. Lynn poured out Daddy’s story to her. Bunny took Lynn’s hands and prayed for my sister and Daddy. My sister went home with peace.
She was awakened Monday morning at 6am by a call from Bunny. She said in the middle of the night Daddy became lucid and they began talking. She said, “John you need to make peace with God.” and he said, “I know.” She said, “Lynn, I want you to know your father prayed with me and received Jesus.” She went on to say that after their prayer, he fell asleep and then suddenly awoke and in the darkness she heard him saying the Lord’s prayer and there was peace.
The following day, we admitted Daddy to hospice, still in and out of lucidity, he occasionally spoke to us. But the strange thing is as I left him, that night, he asked, “Can I walk on those steps?” What steps?” I asked. “Those,” he said, pointing to the ceiling of his room. “They look like ice, like crystal…they are beautiful.” Those are the last words I remember. From that day until the morning he died on thursday, he only spoke in his native Polish tongue; it was strange.
That Sunday, following his death, there was a guest speaker at church…and he was speaking about grace. He quoted Isaiah 1:18, “Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord. Though your sins are like scarlet they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson they shall be like wool." And it was then I realized the meaning of the out of the ordinary grace that was falling from the sky that Sunday prior. It was grace falling into Daddy’s life. With that snow came reconciliation, cleanness, utter peace and salvation. It was a Christmas gift to my sister and I beyond measure.
I think about Daddy often, especially at this time of year. I have, however, of late had troubled thoughts and doubts about my miracle those five years ago. Was daddy just delirious? Had Bunny lied? Was it true? I shared my doubts with my sister and confessed I had asked God in my “Heidi way” to reassure me about Daddy by letting it snow that same way again; a pretty frivolous and theologically scandalous request I admit. I told her after I had petitioned Him; I dreamt it snowed on Christmas. But, as we stood in her kitchen Christmas night , rain was the only thing falling from the sky. We drove home and I thanked God anyway for rain on Christmas.
On December 30,2003 at 2:41 am this morning a glow kept awakening me as it crept in through a slit in the drapes. I thought it was the sunrise but it was all wrong since that window faces south. Then I thought in my dozing mind, it looks like a glow from a fire…and then my cat, who is also my personal psyche nurse, began meowing incessantly. I got that feeling I get from the Lord when he says----”Pay attention I have something to say to you.” So I got out of bed to see where the orange glow was coming from. I pulled open the drapes and my backyard was completely blanketed in snow. The trees were bowing from the weight of the whiteness resting on them. It was eerie, mysterious and beautiful at the same time. It was Daddy’s Snow. It was calm, white and quiet. I was overwhelmed by the thought and presence of how good God is. I then remembered how earlier that day I was walking out of the gym and an old man was walking by and said to another man complaining of the cold that it looked like snow. I turned, looked at the old man and he smiled at me.
What peace and calm it was and I was awake and paying attention. I lay on my bed, spoke psalms wept and received the gift that I had asked from Him.
Merry Christmas from the hand of the one I am truly waiting for, the one who fulfills completely. As I write this that snow is melting. My sister said to me this morning how frivolous the love of God is to His children.....she was awakened at 3am by her dog and a glow as well.
I can’t explain this and I must confess that my flesh has tried to quench the gift that came for me in God’s own timing. I can only thank Him and continue to receive his gift of grace, his peace, his calm and to you reading this I want you to know ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE WITH GOD;PAY ATTENTION AND THOUGH IT TARRY, WAIT FOR IT.
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Passages
I am going to my sister’s for Thanksgiving and all guests are requested to say what they are thankful for as they light a candle. I have been pondering what to say for some time and even though the standard niceties; my family; my health; abundance; a loving community etc., are what I should say, all that seems to come to mind is a sense of loss; I do not think this is necessarily ungrateful.
I feel that this year has been a series of losses, not only for me personally, but for people that I have come to know and care about. Loss is very painful and creates for each individual a unique cluster of bewildering emotions as well as undesired awarenesses of the might-have-beens and man’s lack of control over even the simplest of circumstances.
Suffering makes me aware that I stand on the edge of a passage and at times the only guides through are tears and wrenching grief. Many times on this journey God remains remote and sometimes he is vivid. Somehow I am compelled to light my candle and read something that Henri Nouwen wrote:
One of the most radical demands for you and me is the discovery of our lives as a series of movements or passages. Your whole life is filled with losses, endless losses. And every time there are losses there are choices to be made. You choose to live your losses as passages to anger, blame, hatred, depression, and resentment, or you choose to let these losses be passages to something new, something wider, and deeper. The question is not how to avoid loss and make it not happen, but how to choose it as a passage, as an exodus to greater life and freedom.
And then I am going to say, I am thankful for the Love of God and Passages.
I am going to my sister’s for Thanksgiving and all guests are requested to say what they are thankful for as they light a candle. I have been pondering what to say for some time and even though the standard niceties; my family; my health; abundance; a loving community etc., are what I should say, all that seems to come to mind is a sense of loss; I do not think this is necessarily ungrateful.
I feel that this year has been a series of losses, not only for me personally, but for people that I have come to know and care about. Loss is very painful and creates for each individual a unique cluster of bewildering emotions as well as undesired awarenesses of the might-have-beens and man’s lack of control over even the simplest of circumstances.
Suffering makes me aware that I stand on the edge of a passage and at times the only guides through are tears and wrenching grief. Many times on this journey God remains remote and sometimes he is vivid. Somehow I am compelled to light my candle and read something that Henri Nouwen wrote:
One of the most radical demands for you and me is the discovery of our lives as a series of movements or passages. Your whole life is filled with losses, endless losses. And every time there are losses there are choices to be made. You choose to live your losses as passages to anger, blame, hatred, depression, and resentment, or you choose to let these losses be passages to something new, something wider, and deeper. The question is not how to avoid loss and make it not happen, but how to choose it as a passage, as an exodus to greater life and freedom.
And then I am going to say, I am thankful for the Love of God and Passages.
Sunday, November 16, 2003
Legend: Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair
I realized as I sat listening to a string concert yesterday at Ham Hall, how long it had been since my soul had been nourished. The nourishment was pure worship in spirit and in truth for me. I do not intend to be offensive when I say not much of the music in contemporary church leads my soul to worship. For me, listening to Vivaldi’s: Stabat Mater or anything he wrote for that matter ;Beethoven’s 9th, Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Bach , Mozart, Prokofiev, Shostakovich, and hundreds of other dead guy’s music that no one reading this will know or be able to relate to, feeds something deep within.
A few years ago, during a counseling session for my mood disorder with Kevin Odor, I was told to surround myself with the things that bring nourishment to my soul. Kevin thought a great deal of my depression was a lack of balanced soul food. Sitting in the concert reminded me of how malnourished I had become.
As I heard and watched that group play a piece entitled, Legend: Black is the Color of my True Love's Hair; and the sum of the orchestra far surpassed its parts, a beautiful picture of God’s Glory came to me. I saw what the body of Christ was like as it relates to the Trinity. Through the music, I could envision how it is the work of each member to play his part to the best of his or her ability----not someone else’s part or instrument (that would be chaos), but the one given to him. I sensed what it might be like in heaven; a pure celebration of the divine romance of the Trinity. All glory going to them as we play our part, telling their story; the passion, tragedy and triumph of all they have endured. And yet, within that body of music makers, there are many stories of individuals with his or her own tale which uniquely glorifies the Father, Son and Holy Spirit; in particular, the story of one little girl; my little girl.
Caitlin went through grueling auditions to make it into this select group of musicians. She had no experience in an orchestra and sight read very little; but she could play her fiddle and practiced seriously. Midway into rehearsals and practicing two and sometimes three hours per day, she was told because she was homeschooled, she should not have been allowed in the group (it is a public school program). The orchestra chair person said she would be allowed to play this time, but asked her not to audition next year. She was hurt, but decided to continue on to the next hoop in this orchestral experience, the dreaded Re- seating auditions. This is a blind audition where the musicians play the most difficult parts of the pieces and are scored and placed according to their ability in the orchestra. Now, it is an honor to even be in this ensemble. That is why it is called, Honors Orchestra and sitting in any seat is to be cherished, even if it is in the last row.
The glory of God comes through her story when on Thursday night after over a week of wondering where her audition placed her; Caitlin went to rehearsal looking for her newly appointed seat. She was looking in the back because of her age, and lack of experience, (sixth graders are usually in the back). She could not find her name. We assumed she was out. She asked one of the teachers if she was on the list and he showed her where she was to sit. She had been judged and scored on the first stand, second chair of II Violins. Her stand was one of a group which forms an inner circle around the conductor. My little girl sat center stage, a breath away from the conductor.
What a glorious day! I watched and admired a little girl who had been through so much to sit in that place of honor, and ultimately, she played her part in harmony with the others and the Glory of God was revealed in the music as it sung my soul a Legend: Black is the Color of my True Love’s........(My Jesus’ )Hair.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
Being Myself
I was thinking about, or rather, I was made aware of how careless I can be in my prayer life. I find myself praying the old standard: help me to be more like Jesus in my life……… yadah, yadah, yadah, you know how it goes. But, as I was in my location of a higher spiritual plane, that is, in the kitchen, washing dishes, a little small voice was challenging my perfunctory request. I was made aware of what a big thing it is to desire, request or attempt to be like Jesus.
Simply, (without revealing too many details of a complicated issue) I was asked why I was content to do one thing for one individual that I would not do for another with the same need. Both I and the Spirit knew the answer, but it needed to be asked; it was a timing thing. Also, the Spirit had a more detailed and expanded answer for me.
So, the answer was that I want to be like Jesus when it involves a sacrifice that benefits me or makes me appear better than I am. I love being like Jesus when it involves casting demons out; telling Pharisees where to go; healing the sick and feeding five thousand (all via the wave of a hand .) I especially love being like Jesus when it comes to being right in all things, of course!
But, when it comes to caring for another’s burden at a cost to my convenience, or being tolerant with someone who is treating me heinously, or shutting my mouth when my children make foolish, immature decisions; accepting criticism and rejection with grace; saying no to a material thing to allow a spiritual thing to bloom; being completely forgiving when all I want to do is to discuss how badly I have been offended and critical of behaviors I am in bondage to myself........when it comes to this......the Spirit said.........You love being yourself.
Sometimes one of the steps to a deeper relationship with your Teacher is to be shown and be convinced how totally other He is from you. Seems paradoxical that the best way to relate to God is to embrace the stark chasm between your natures and rather than become discouraged, you draw closer.
Father forgive me, for I do not know what I am doing.
I was thinking about, or rather, I was made aware of how careless I can be in my prayer life. I find myself praying the old standard: help me to be more like Jesus in my life……… yadah, yadah, yadah, you know how it goes. But, as I was in my location of a higher spiritual plane, that is, in the kitchen, washing dishes, a little small voice was challenging my perfunctory request. I was made aware of what a big thing it is to desire, request or attempt to be like Jesus.
Simply, (without revealing too many details of a complicated issue) I was asked why I was content to do one thing for one individual that I would not do for another with the same need. Both I and the Spirit knew the answer, but it needed to be asked; it was a timing thing. Also, the Spirit had a more detailed and expanded answer for me.
So, the answer was that I want to be like Jesus when it involves a sacrifice that benefits me or makes me appear better than I am. I love being like Jesus when it involves casting demons out; telling Pharisees where to go; healing the sick and feeding five thousand (all via the wave of a hand .) I especially love being like Jesus when it comes to being right in all things, of course!
But, when it comes to caring for another’s burden at a cost to my convenience, or being tolerant with someone who is treating me heinously, or shutting my mouth when my children make foolish, immature decisions; accepting criticism and rejection with grace; saying no to a material thing to allow a spiritual thing to bloom; being completely forgiving when all I want to do is to discuss how badly I have been offended and critical of behaviors I am in bondage to myself........when it comes to this......the Spirit said.........You love being yourself.
Sometimes one of the steps to a deeper relationship with your Teacher is to be shown and be convinced how totally other He is from you. Seems paradoxical that the best way to relate to God is to embrace the stark chasm between your natures and rather than become discouraged, you draw closer.
Father forgive me, for I do not know what I am doing.
Sunday, October 19, 2003
And On and on she goes; random thoughts written over a period of time
When depressed people feel happiness, it is not wasted or taken for granted.
When I am stressed by a situation I can’t finish my thought or sentence.
Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night I have a strange feeling that I don’t exist.
Sometimes I wish I could be an anorexic again…but an hour later , I say hmmmmmm????? Indian food sounds good tonight.
I get depressed about what gravity is doing to my body.
Sometimes my brain feels like a squashed pumpkin.
Sometimes I think Gregg deserved someone much better.
When I cry in bed at night my cat sits on my chest.
Sometimes it is just easier to believe a lie than the truth.
I know that my depression is going to leave when I dream I am flying over great areas especially the ocean.
I really love the song His banner over me is love.
I have a huge problem with anger.
I worry that my children may have inherited my illness.
Keanu Reeves has short legs and a long body…… whoa.
I have a crush on Ralph Fiennes.
If I was an actress I would want Kate Blanchette’s voice.........even if I wasn't....I would....I covet Kate's vocal cords, I think that is supposed to be bad.
Since I can remember I have read people’s personality by their hands, shape , size, nail beds and movement……….
Unchecked ambition can destroy relationships
My mother refers to her bipolar illness as Hay fever; she also thinks that if you have ever eaten meat you will lose your teeth and be punished.
After my mother's father( who also had hay fever) died of lung cancer, she thought he had come back as a bird so she feeds birds all the time
I love birds…but I don’t think they are any preexisting relatives.
I bore easily……..Gregg says there is no such thing as being bored.
The only two consistent things I do without fail is wear a watch and drink coffee each morning.
Are IQ and physical strength really inverse of each other…? Is Gregg right when he says, retard strength?
Is the complexity of a culture’s language an indication of their intelligence?
One day when I was in third grade my mother felt lonely and kept me home from school. She took me to the beach and we ate bread, cheese, chicken legs and lemon pudding. She let me sip her beer too. We stayed all day long. She was nice to me.
Will my mind ever become quiet?
When depressed people feel happiness, it is not wasted or taken for granted.
When I am stressed by a situation I can’t finish my thought or sentence.
Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night I have a strange feeling that I don’t exist.
Sometimes I wish I could be an anorexic again…but an hour later , I say hmmmmmm????? Indian food sounds good tonight.
I get depressed about what gravity is doing to my body.
Sometimes my brain feels like a squashed pumpkin.
Sometimes I think Gregg deserved someone much better.
When I cry in bed at night my cat sits on my chest.
Sometimes it is just easier to believe a lie than the truth.
I know that my depression is going to leave when I dream I am flying over great areas especially the ocean.
I really love the song His banner over me is love.
I have a huge problem with anger.
I worry that my children may have inherited my illness.
Keanu Reeves has short legs and a long body…… whoa.
I have a crush on Ralph Fiennes.
If I was an actress I would want Kate Blanchette’s voice.........even if I wasn't....I would....I covet Kate's vocal cords, I think that is supposed to be bad.
Since I can remember I have read people’s personality by their hands, shape , size, nail beds and movement……….
Unchecked ambition can destroy relationships
My mother refers to her bipolar illness as Hay fever; she also thinks that if you have ever eaten meat you will lose your teeth and be punished.
After my mother's father( who also had hay fever) died of lung cancer, she thought he had come back as a bird so she feeds birds all the time
I love birds…but I don’t think they are any preexisting relatives.
I bore easily……..Gregg says there is no such thing as being bored.
The only two consistent things I do without fail is wear a watch and drink coffee each morning.
Are IQ and physical strength really inverse of each other…? Is Gregg right when he says, retard strength?
Is the complexity of a culture’s language an indication of their intelligence?
One day when I was in third grade my mother felt lonely and kept me home from school. She took me to the beach and we ate bread, cheese, chicken legs and lemon pudding. She let me sip her beer too. We stayed all day long. She was nice to me.
Will my mind ever become quiet?
Friday, October 17, 2003
Saying goodbye to my friend
I will miss Carolyn. She has moved away. I met her in housechurch. Through a series of unfortunate events, she left house church and so did I. In the midst of it all; we became close. We tread very familiar ground and we can speak of hard things without diminishing one another’s spirits. It has always been easy to be in her presence.
The people that have chosen to remain in my inner circle do so at great risk because of my frailties and thorns. She has been a true friend, tolerant of my manic; soapbox outbursts, abysmal listening skills, and reclusive lapses. I have learned so much from her, about unconditional love, perseverance, gentle speech, trust , mercy and honesty.
I know in my heart that her leaving is an important call from the Lord. I don’t know what it is God has for her and her family, but I know He will be good in all He does and will be her treasure alone.
I will miss Carolyn. She has moved away. I met her in housechurch. Through a series of unfortunate events, she left house church and so did I. In the midst of it all; we became close. We tread very familiar ground and we can speak of hard things without diminishing one another’s spirits. It has always been easy to be in her presence.
The people that have chosen to remain in my inner circle do so at great risk because of my frailties and thorns. She has been a true friend, tolerant of my manic; soapbox outbursts, abysmal listening skills, and reclusive lapses. I have learned so much from her, about unconditional love, perseverance, gentle speech, trust , mercy and honesty.
I know in my heart that her leaving is an important call from the Lord. I don’t know what it is God has for her and her family, but I know He will be good in all He does and will be her treasure alone.
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