A Matter of Place

I look at the black and white 8x10 photo of my grandson welcoming his first sibling. He is a toddler – so young – yet he is quiet in the moment, looking at her with such tenderness and love it takes my breath away. 

Wisdom whispers, reminding me that tender moments are rare and precious. Babies and toddlers are not always quiet. I am thankful for the Grands and the photograph.

Stetsonville – Medford – Cornell – Menomonie – Chippewa Falls

Cornell – Holcombe – Chippewa Falls – Eau Claire

Sun Prairie – Ankeny – Eden Prairie – Marshalltown – West Bend

Bloomer – Eau Claire – Oakville – Mehlville – Affton

The photograph has traveled with me to five of the nineteen places called home. The geography of my life spans four states – with return engagements – in the Mississippi River basin.

Wisconsin – Iowa – Minnesota – Missouri

The Mississippi is constant, faithful and changing. The levees and bridges, locks and dams, envisioned by human minds and constructed by human hands imperfectly withstand the forces of nature. Some age gracefully. Others experience catastrophic failure. All require maintenance and repair. Creeks and streams and smaller rivers flow into the Mississippi, and the mighty river flows boldly south toward New Orleans and the inevitable mingling with the sea.

My grandson, born in Minnesota, welcomed his first sister in Wisconsin, his second sister in Missouri, and just days ago a third sister amid pandemic of COVID-19. He holds the baby and smiles for the camera – a moment of tenderness and pride, flanked by femininity, a sister on each side. The generous over-stuffed rocker is filled to capacity. Behind the rocker is a patio door. Sunlight pours in and my eyes are drawn upward from the Grands to the backyard edged by untamed growth. An aging railroad bridge crosses over the Meramec, the water below eagerly flowing toward the Mississippi, flowing toward the sea.

My soul grows quiet, contemplative, prayerful.

In a letter to the exiles the prophet Jeremiah writes: “‘I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”

Yes, Lord. Yes.

R

Jeremiah 29:11

shadowed clouds

A sense of rebirth surrounds me. i find myself squinting into the too-bright light of life outside the womb i recently experienced at ICAPglobal.

A photo taken on the evening of May 15 marks my arrival in Green Lake and captures the sense of hope in descending darkness.

Something about the shadowed clouds coming to meet the hilltop brings to mind Genesis ...

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.

And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. God called the light “day,” and the darkness he called “night.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day. – Genesis 1:1-5 NIV

This morning there are tears as i am blessed by shared photos of my traveling companions, my co-conspirators in Christ. i am reminded how we stood together on the first morning of The Story workshop, hesitant and bold, knowing we'd encounter death, confident in the still small voice that promises resurrection.

God weaves our lives together in the telling of our stories, tears pledging witness to deep pain, spoken words dancing with silence, smoldering embers of encouragement lighting fires of compassion in our hearts and in our eyes.

You call me out upon the waters
The great unknown where feet may fail
And there I find You in the mystery
In oceans deep
My faith will stand

And I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

Your grace abounds in deepest waters
Your sovereign hand
Will be my guide
Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me
You've never failed and You won't start now

So I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior

I will call upon Your name
Keep my eyes above the waves
My soul will rest in Your embrace
I am Yours and You are mine

Rw

Mary's Song

I'm bursting with God-news;
I'm dancing the song of my Savior God.
God took one good look at me, and look what happened—
I'm the most fortunate woman on earth!
What God has done for me will never be forgotten,
the God whose very name is holy, set apart from all others.
His mercy flows in wave after wave
on those who are in awe before him.
He bared his arm and showed his strength,
scattered the bluffing braggarts.
He knocked tyrants off their high horses,
pulled victims out of the mud.
The starving poor sat down to a banquet;
the callous rich were left out in the cold.
He embraced his chosen child, Israel;
he remembered and piled on the mercies, piled them high.
It's exactly what he promised,
beginning with Abraham and right up to now.
—Luke 1:46-56 MSG

I'd never read this part of The Story ~ beautiful.

Rw
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Touched Twice

“I have had enough, LORD,” he said. “Take my life; I am
no better than my ancestors.” Then [Elijah] lay down under
the bush and fell asleep. All at once an angel touched him
and said, “Get up and eat.” He looked around, and there
by his head was some bread baked over hot coals, and
a jar of water. He ate and drank and then lay down again.
The angel of the LORD came back a second time and
touched him and said, “Get up and eat, for the journey
is too much for you.” So he got up and ate and drank.
— 1 Kings 19:4-8 NIV excerpt

This verse is from the board gathering for Touched Twice United this past weekend. For the first time, my husband went with me, to Oswego IL where we gather from noon to noon. In a beautiful space we cook together, eat together, pray together. In the unstructured time before dinner, I bring up Bell v Driscoll with my friend Jc, which moves to an exploration of how Jesus ignores the Canaanite woman. We ask Bill to shed some light. I often wonder how this 5th grade GIRL, ended up in this place. I am not sure her husband has ever seen her like this.

The hospitality extends overnight, multiple bedrooms in the beautiful space invite us to sleep here, to watch the snow fall, safe and warm under the sturdy roof. In the wee morning hours, our executive director shovels the driveway, frees the plowed-in cars we left on the street.

My first Touched Twice United free clinic was Church With A Heart. I am inspired by the 3 founding volunteers who remain at the table, the men and women who embraced in 1996 the Touched Twice vision of free clinics in communities coast to coast by 2011, serving human need in Christ's name. I am amazed at the viral nature of the flash mob and awed by 113 churches coming together in Share the Hope.

I am embarrassed that in 170 blogs this awesome ministry is barely mentioned. I am thankful for my husband, who stepped in to help when I was exhausted.

I am grateful for God's ability to touch us twice, and breathe a new vision into Touched Twice United: the Elijah Project.

We serve an awesome God!

Rw
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Tomorrow: a man gives me the shirt off his back.
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Predictable Me

In the first cupboard I opened this morning - the first cupboard I open every morning - there is a greeting card.


Immediately recognizing that I am more than predictable, I laugh and close the cupboard door, leave the envelope unopened, wonder briefly why an R is scribbled beneath the MOM, why my husband would address a card to me as MOM.

Later I discover it is 'from' our black lab mix Dozer. He encourages me to share birthday treats, "trip while carrying cake to the table."

Another card awaits me in the upstairs office, atop Harley's dog food container. Predictably he wakes to breakfast every morning, in the office that doubles as his bedroom. Harley's card asks, "Did I train you right, or what?"

Yup.

There are sugared raised donuts - my personal favorite - in the fresh bakery bag next to my husband's computer. Not wanting to wake Harley too early, my husband's desk is where I often begin writing my almost-daily blog.

I am predictable.

Listening to a snippet of audio here, I am reminded that God has a way of showing up when and where and how He wants.

God is unpredictable.

The question today is, will I let go of control and routine, open my hand and heart to the unexpected?

Rw
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In the beginning you laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of your hands. Psalm 102:25 NIV
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Push

Was I pushed?

Or, did I jump?

When telling the story
of my journey with Christ,
the early days of Whispered
Hopes, the days before we
even knew the name, I use
the word PUSH.

People who don't know me,
and some of those that do,
might hear PUSH as violent,
overriding free will.

Nope. That's not it at all.

push
verb (used with object) to press upon or against (a thing) with force in order to move it away. to move (something) in a specified way by exerting force; shove; drive: to push something aside; to push the door open. to effect or accomplish by thrusting obstacles aside: to push one's way through the crowd. to cause
to extend or project; thrust. to press or urge to some action or course: His mother pushed him to get a job... verb (used without object) to exert a thrusting force upon something. to use steady force in moving a thing away; shove. to make one's way with effort or persistence, as against difficulty or opposition. to extend or project; thrust: The point of land pushed far out into the sea. to put forth vigorous or persistent efforts. dictionary.com

The person originating the PUSH couldn't be in the water, waiting for me to jump in from the side of the pool. I was on the high dive. I was afraid of heights. The PUSH needed to come from someone standing right next to me, on the diving board, a person willing to risk with me, someone who knew the water below was deep enough to catch us both.

Like a first time skydiver, who needed a not-so-gentle nudge from the plane, or a novice hang glider coaxed from a cliff, I wasn't going to jump off the high dive on my own. My life was warm and dry, predictable and safe.

Kids jump into life all the time, dive into joy. Kids risk.

"I'm telling you, once and for all, that unless you return to square one and start over like children, you're not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in. Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God's kingdom. What's more, when you receive the childlike on my account, it's the same as receiving me. Matthew 18:3-5 MSG

Next time I tell the story, I hope to be more articulate so that everyone will hear me saying what I really mean:

Thanks for the PUSH.

Rw
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Karen Roach, Photographer 123rf.com
High Dive

Winter Thyme

This morning, the view from our bedroom window is a winter wonderland. A soft snow is falling, accumulating, reflecting the moonlight, gently lighting a quiet predawn world.

Last night my son and daughter-in-love stopped by, their first Christmas tree bundled and tied to the top of his Jeep. "Hey, Mom. Sorry we can't stay to visit. Can we get that box of ornaments, the Christmas decorations, from the basement?"

We walk downstairs, turn on the lights, find 5 boxes marked
with his name. The boxes contain the collections of childhood:
a Victorian Christmas village, his tree ornaments, a handful of Longaberger Christmas baskets, a set of holiday dishes.

We carry 3 boxes out to the Jeep, leaving the village in storage.

The MoM in me inquires about practical things,
"Do you have
a tree stand?"
The children
standing here
are married
adults with
college degrees
and student loans,
stepping into
adulthood with
mortgage payments,
experiencing
home ownership
for the first time.


Like a softly accumulating snow reflecting the moonlight, the
man and woman standing before me will light the world this Christmas, continuing on a few family traditions and beginning
new celebrations all their own.

The MoM in me is WoW'd.

Parents, don't come down too hard 

on your children or you'll crush their spirits.

Let the peace of Christ keep you in tune 

with each other, in step with each other.

Colossians 3:21, 3:15 MSG

Rw

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Timeline

Do you make room for “accidents” in your writing plan, and allow opportunities to explore creative diversions? Take a few minutes and look at one of your current writing projects. What can you do to loosen the plan just enough to ensure you don’t make the same mistakes that Tharp mentions below? Smash365
These mistakes — relying too much on others, waiting for the perfect setup, overthinking structure, feeling obligated to finish what you’ve started, and working with the wrong materials — are deadly. Any one of them will undermine your best efforts. ~Twyla Tharp, The Creative Habit, p. 128 

This morning
as I listen to the 09.25.11 podcast by one of my favorite teachers,
I search for 
my timeline, something gathered together as homework
for a class
14 months ago, a synopsis of my life. I can't find it. What I leave behind is a mess. Bins and boxes, unfinished scrapbooks, a room full of bits and pieces. The dried and crumbling bouquet of calla lillies from my wedding rests atop a photo of my father as a Marine. I am lured by the promise
of a perfect setup, a flawless filing system, a well-structured story of my earthly life. If I only stack neatly the memories in closet and armoire, then I can pull together the words. I wallow now in the chaos that just minutes ago rested unseen in dark spaces behind tidy doors.
I want the disappointing memories, bottomless emptiness, inky blackness to disappear – and the beauty of a life created to emerge within my words.

Perhaps what I need is a Word?

I didn't find my timeline. Instead in the chaos I discovered the workbook that prompted the homework: Believing God.

We spent 12 weeks on 5 statements, a pledge of faith:

God is who He says He is.

God will do what He says He will do.

I am who God says I am.

I can do all thing through Christ.

God's Word is living and active in me.

Our of respect for her work, I resist the urge to replace the author's use of He with my preference S/He. The non-gender-specific pronoun is my weakness, a need to be reminded often that I too am created in God's image.

Taping together one sheet of paper for each decade of my life here on earth, I put my birth father's birth date on the left edge. Scaling the timeline at about 1/2 inch per year, I mark my birth mother's birth date, my own birth date, and the birth dates of my siblings, and my children. Then I added more paper to the left side, space for my grandparents' birth dates, great-grandparents birth dates, perhaps more.

Today, recreating the timeline brings perspective.

Each day is 1/365th of the space between two birthdays – the slash marks at the right so close together that the text is unreadable. The whole year is really such a tiny slice of life when compared to all that came before, all the time God devoted to designing today for me.

And for you.

Rw

Fortune Cookies

A plastic-spiral-bound 1993 Iowa Woman Endeavors workbook and an unopened second edition of Brenda Ueland’s If You Want To Write accompany my half-written writing projects, strewn across the table, discarded paper fortunes amid the crumbles of broken cookies. Scattered pages. Tattered dreams. The title page for Rock-A-Bye Moon – an unwritten book for my children – is a remnant of my pre-Google existence. Notes From The Kitchen Window – a compilation of family folklore – is an unpublished book written before the concept of ISBN entered my consciousness. The 100 recipes dispersed from my mother’s kitchen were actually published as a family cookbook about a decade ago, but my youngest sister never received a copy. She asked again recently.

As I examine the scattered pages amid the crumbled cookies, the task before
me is not as overwhelming as it once seemed.
I unearth the originals for my mother’s cookbook and set them aside to take to the printer, make a copy for my sister. I read through the family folklore. The writing is actually pretty good. The typos will be part of the charm. I’ll take that to the printer too, maybe get an ISBN, just in case.

Rw


Speak Less by Laura Kimball
What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. It is the harder, because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know - Ralph Waldo Emerson I once received a fortune cookie that read: “Speak less of your plans, you’ll get more done.” What’s one project that you’ve been sitting on and thinking about but haven’t made progress on? What’s stopping you? What would happen if you actually went for it and did it?

Cattails

Sunday was a bad hair day, one marked by puffy eyes and dark circles of sleep deprivation, a fading spray tan (oh the vanity); rented tables to return and borrowed linens to wash; a garage littered with empty coolers and a dining room overflowing with rumpled tuxedos.

It is Monday, the Monday following the weekend our son -- our baby -- got married.

I maneuver my bicycle around the coolers and out of our garage. A few minutes later, as I ride down a country road in the early morning sunshine, I see the cattails in the marsh, puffy and fading, survivors of a long Wisconsin winter. I know how the cattails feel.

Seeing a son get married is a beautiful thing. The woman beside him, radiant and in love. Our son completely in the moment, his eyes only for her. Family and friends gather to witness their joy, to share a meal, to raise a glass, to dance, to laugh, to celebrate. I celebrate too, share the joy of two people in love.

The wedding day is full of promise. Like the toddler's first step, the start of kindergarten, or the day he got his driver's license, his wedding marks the passage of time. For our son and his bride this is a new beginning -- a fresh start -- like the rich lush greens of a spring meadow.

When did the little boy and girl grow up, learn to rely on each other, become a groom and bride?" my heart asks.

When did we find time to grow old?" my knees reply, aching with every rotation of the peddles.

Ignoring my knees, I relax into the solitude. I am like the cattails, beautiful in my own season, but faded in comparison to the radiance of the meadow.

I let my mind drift. "...Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly..." The grace-filled words touch my heart. I pray my son and his bride spend their lifetimes loving extravagantly.

And, like the fresh green cattails of summer pushing upward from the earth, I will grow to discover a new season in this life, my own groom by my side.

Written June 14, 2010. Verse: 1 Corinthians 13:13 MSG