A Breath in Time

"It is widely reported that, a person at rest takes about 16 breaths per minute. This means we breathe about 960 breaths an hour, 23,040 breaths a day, 8,409,600 a year. The person who lives to 80 will take about 672,768,000 breaths in a lifetime." - Randy Clare

This morning with what feels like a giant leap forward in the writing careers for two women in my circle of friends [see The Bible App], I am thinking about breath and breathing and how quickly our time on this earth is passing.

From the modest bookshelf in the corner of the living room I retrieve the first book ever to cross my desk as an editor, Dual Obsessions by Don Jacobson. The note tucked just inside the front cover was written 21 years ago—and in my soul the journey with "Ole" and "Lena" resonates with a freshness that belies the passage of time. Can it really be that over two decades have passed? It feels more like a breath in time, that just yesterday I was sitting at the conference table in Rice Lake, Wisconsin, laboring beside the author and his amazing wife as the book emerged from the manuscript.

Referring to myself as an editor is a rather recent development, with my preferred self-title being assistant to the author—a behind-the-scenes girl Friday—part of the support-and-encouragement sisterhood. For the most part I play a small role in a collaboration of authors, designers, editors, photographers, illustrators, proofreaders, cheerleaders, mentors, friends, and prayer partners. 

The partnership with my friend and most prolific author is a 25-book journey that began in 2011 with Touch Stone. Though a Facebook page still exists, the website for my sole proprietorship Renew Collaborative was taken down when I realized that the proofreading and editing work that has blessed me with more than a dozen delightful authors has come by referral—personal and professional.

So, today I am grateful—for a breath in time, for the work that is on my desk, for those who've worked beside me, and for God's undeniable blessing on our lives. Go God!

Rw

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
    your works are wonderful,
    I know that full well.  Psalm 139:14 NIV

 

Barcodes, Coffee and Grief

It took my breath away.  

Walking into Caribou Coffee and seeing the man sitting next to the fireplace at the high-top table for two took my breath away. The shape of his shoulders, the style and texture of his shirt, the color and cut of his hair... this man, with his back to me, could have been my husband. 

It took my breath away because my husband died 5 years, 6 months and 5 days ago. This man, who looks so much like him, is a stranger.

In the early years of my grief journey many encounters stole my ability to breathe... the moments of pain came close together like the lines of a barcode. Honestly its been awhile since something like this has happened. The white spaces between the thin black lines of pain have broadened. 

In the beginning I held that there was no hope of the grief that accompanied my every waking moment ever fading. And, in this moment, I realize that the pain has faded into the background while the desire to be with my husband remains constant, deeply buried and ready to be unearthed.

Grief is odd that way, unexpected. And, if grief is what remains when the person we love moves on, grief is both unique to the love once shared and universal in the human experience.

"There are three things that amaze me—
    no, four things that I don’t understand:   

    how an eagle glides through the sky,
    how a snake slithers on a rock,
    how a ship navigates the ocean,
    how a man loves a woman." 

                —Proverbs 30:18-19 NLT [more]

Rw

 

Grief: Does Time Really Heal All Wounds? [more]

Caribou Coffee original logo [more]

Chaos-Yarn-Tornado

The air smells sweet and inviting as I open the patio door to let in the breeze. Freshly mown grass. Blossoming honeysuckle. I walk across the lively green clover masquerading as grass in the island of the parking lot and make my way past the swimming pool. Laborers are working on it... restoration and repair. Hopefully it will be done for the holiday weekend coming up at the end of May. 

At the far end of the courtyard surrounding the pool I make my way up a concrete stairway. I continue heading north for a block or so before turning east and looping through the neighborhood on Peace Haven, then south on Sappington Barracks Road, turning west again and heading home along Barracksview… my one-mile loop. The smell of honeysuckle comes and goes as I walk, my eyes enjoy the blooming color of delightful flower gardens, bushes accentuating well-manicured lawns, the intriguing 5 3 1 of the numbers identifying the house painted on metal buckets overflowing with fresh growing things! I think of my daughter and her husband, their house, something clever … though 3 1 3 2 will be four buckets and that even number is just not as appealing. I tuck the crumpled idea away for another time. My daughter and her husband are already gathering ideas that inspire. My gardening, painting, mulching, porch decorating days are behind me. I walk on. 

On my right is the blue house, its magnolia tree fully green now, having dropped its magnificent blooms some weeks ago. I pass under a towering oak tree and am reminded of the trees of my childhood. The evening is a warm and inviting 79 degrees, which (to a girl from Wisconsin) feels like mid-summer… not spring, not the first week of May… Summer! Returning to the apartment, I open my patio door wide to welcome the breeze. 

I am restless… weary of the required reading for the real estate licensing exam and the self-imposed foray into a Cloud and Townsend book on boundaries and motherhood. I put down my highlighters –- yellow for the boundaries book; yellow, pink, green to organize the seemingly endless minutiae to be memorized for the real estate exam. I rise from my chair, stare at the wall calendar and contemplate… when do I want to take the exam? Resignation to the keeping of my promise takes me to the computer and soon I am scheduling. 9am May 17. $62 please. 

Well, that's a stretch. Please was not displayed on the screen. 

I exit the exam vendor page and log in to my real estate email. I add the appointment to the online calendar I share with the broker who employs me as her assistant and note the expense in the register of my checkbook. 

As I commit to taking the next step all that I am doing-pursuing-experiencing brings images of a Spirograph attempt gone awry, or skeins of yarn twisted and knotted, the colors endlessly intersecting. 

I put my fingers to the computer keyboard and type chaos-yarn-tornado and a few other words seeking an image that speaks to the current state of me.  

As the setting sun abandons the sky, a gentle rain begins to fall. In the quiet of this night I breathe in the damp freshly washed air and embrace the immutable widowed sadness within me. 

R 

image credit

Third Chair

Back in the day, clarinet was my instrument ... high school marching band and playing concerts in the gym. I wasn't very good. In all honesty, I loathed practicing, and when the new young band director came on staff, my upperclassman status didn't count for much. He held auditions. Shuffled things up a bit -- and me down a bit -- from first to third clarinet part. 

I quit band at the end of that semester, choosing instead to audition for the newly-forming flag corps. This kept me in the loop with marching band and football games, without the drudgery and expectations of clarinet lessons.

The flag corps was fresh and fun, requiring skills that came more naturally -- dance, movement, rhythm, precision. Practices flew by as we developed choreography and worked out the performance details -- like the "how to" of ditching our togas after a selection from "Animal House" under the Friday night lights.

No regrets.

As I listen to a podcast from The Allender Center [more] a quote opens a barren chamber in my heart:

"The most difficult instrument to play in the orchestra is second fiddle." 

- Leonard Bernstein

 
As I struggle in this season of grief and depression, when hopelessness comes in huge and unexpected waves, when drowning gruesomely promises to be easier than breathing, when it feels as though nothing will ever be fresh and fun God opens a barren chamber within my heart.

And I am reminded of the words from the bible that first captivated me:

... what happens when we live God’s way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people. We find ourselves involved in loyal commitments, not needing to force our way in life, able to marshal and direct our energies wisely. [more]

I surrender. I will breath. I will wait. 

Rw

Photo: Miss Jacobson's Music blog "Music Stand Humor"

destiny jeans

i am a mess.

serving at a food pantry is difficult.

serving at a food pantry while looking in my own mirror and feeling the dark shadow of poverty creep up behind me is more than difficult.

the sadness is often so heavy on my heart that i feel as though my body will simply stop breathing.

yet 'not breathing' never happens.

i breathe because only God decides when breathing stops.

so i often feel stuck here in this place and this time ... and when i whine "Why?" the words of Dan Allender haunt me:

"What is God doing?" he asks.

and my focus shifts:

God is providing.

God is providing daily bread.
 
God is providing physical fitness in time spent unloading trucks filled with food.

and when weight loss diminishes the options in my closet:

God is providing sparkling hand-me-up jeans from my friend Destiny.










"Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
    I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the Lord your God, ..."

Isaiah 43:1-3 excerpt NIV

Rjw

Vocation and Passion by Dan Allender inspires me

Baggage

It is so easy to get lost in the darkness, to experience our bodies as though we are breathing thick black oil instead of fresh clean air, to disengage ourselves from community and crawl into our wounds, forget that the night is nearly over.

When people ask how I came to be here in this place, my story begins with a decade long absence from community — a drought violently begun in 1997 when I broke away from Catholicism, a long dry season that ended ten years later in the open arms of a holy catholic apostolic church, a multi-denominational community, a place where for weeks I did not introduce myself, was known only as the woman who cries.

Yesterday, after a 40 day absence, I returned home. As my heart steps out of the darkness, the tears flow freely.

Breathing the thick black oil of darkness began nearly a year ago, triggered unintentionally by a person who mistook compassion for friendship, a person who cannot hear my pain, a person cruelly misled as plastic me expanded to mask the inadequacy inherent in my humanity.

I allowed the oily plastic mask to distance me from God and disconnect me from true friends, the people who love deeply enough to accept me baggage and all.

The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. 

So let us put aside the deeds of darkness...  

—Romans 13:12 NIV more

I am again the woman who cries.

Rw

Listen to Sunday podcast here
Catholic vs. catholic more
David Hayward, Naked Pastor baggage 

Little Red Riding Hood

A collection of photos culled from albums and boxes rests in a left-over tin of thank you notes, cards celebrating Gratitude and Abundance.
As I touch the photos this morning, swells of emotion accost me like waves from a turbulent sea, threatening to fill my lungs with deadly water, steal the breath from my trembling lips.

And I am walking the Wounded Heart journey again WHY?

In the vast ocean of panic my humanity seeks an anchor, solid ground, hell I'd settle for the sifting sand of a dry beach.

Sifting sand. An interesting turn of phrase.

I realize one of the anchors I am putting down is reliance on the processing dates gracing photo margins at a time when 12 pictures - a roll of film - might contain a whole year. APR 63 is the date on this photo of me in a coat and hat made by my mother. Spring, not Christmas? Digging out a magnifying glass, I take a closer look.


What I'd always thought was fuzzy white little-girl-fake-fur trim turns out to be lace, the bodice appliqué is daisy-like flowers, not snowflakes.

I put down my magnifying glass as this Little Red Riding Hood image begins sifting time, propels me forward to my senior year of high school. A mentor and trusted teacher, a close friend of my father's, takes me aside after class, tells me a joke, a Little Red Riding Hood joke... ending with a gruffly-feminine voice representing an indignant Little Red Riding Hood:

"You're going to eat me like the book says!"

The overtly sexual reference seers me like a branding iron. Shame rushes in.
I stand in the silence of my teacher's laughter, paralyzed within his leer. I want to vomit. I want to run. I want to scream.

I go home, never tell anyone, until now, until this journey through the pages of Wounded Heart.

In the storm of my panic, when I am screaming and thrashing in fear, God is neither silent nor disengaged.

God is vast and calm like a quiet tropical beach at sunset. God is waiting to embrace me when I choose to quit thrashing around and trying to save myself, when I open my heart to accept His help, His healing grace.

One day he and his disciples got in a boat. "Let's cross the lake," he said. 

And off they went. It was smooth sailing, and he fell asleep. A terrific storm 

came up suddenly on the lake. Water poured in, and they were about 

to capsize. They woke Jesus: "Master, Master, we're going to drown!"

Getting to his feet, he told the wind, "Silence!" and the waves, 

"Quiet down!" They did it. The lake became smooth as glass.

Then he said to his disciples, "Why can't you trust me?"

They were in absolute awe, staggered and stammering, 

"Who is this, anyway? He calls out to the winds 

and sea, and they do what he tells them!"

—Luke 8:22-25 NIV

I often struggle with embracing the biblical images of God as Father.

Focusing on Jesus brings me through the pain.

Rw
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3-Minute Retreat

Its been two years, maybe longer, since my friend Mary and
I discovered the 3-Minute Retreat. I can't speak for Mary,
yet I feel the need to confess:

the 3-Minute Retreat 

usually takes me 

more than 3 minutes.

The prompt I cherish most is the invitation to breathe, to be intentional, to slow down before beginning this time with God. Pausing my life, event momentarily, often changes my course.

It was within 3-Minute Retreat that I first discovered this:

A hurricane wind ripped through the mountains and shattered the rocks before God, but God wasn't to be found in the wind; after the wind an earthquake, but God wasn't in the earthquake; and after the earthquake fire, but God wasn't in the fire; and after the fire a gentle and quiet whisper.

When Elijah heard the quiet voice, he muffled his face with his great cloak, went to the mouth of the cave, and stood there. A quiet voice asked, "So Elijah, now tell me, what are you doing here?"

1 Kings 19 MSG

Elijah isn't afraid of God, he is afraid of people.

Me too.

The 3-Minute Retreat caresses the scars of my childhood faith, wounds associated with the traditional religious architecture:

Catholicism.

In Fellowship, a diverse multi-denominational community with a generous sprinkling of Catholic-Baptists - if such a thing exists? -
I am healing, growing and forgiving, appreciating human diversity in faith, meditating, thinking and praying.

Today, I am thinking and praying about adding 3-Minute Retreat to the resources offered on our website for the women in the strip clubs. I am moving cautiously, talking about it with God, asking people for help.

Will you try the 3-Minute Retreat? Let me know what you think?

Rw

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Puffed

I'd like you to meet Hua James Beethoven. He was an adorable puppy who grew into a really cute little dog. As a puppy, Hua tended to get a little too excited, a little too often. When that happened, his owner held him against her in a sort of firm and gentle bear hug ... and just patiently waited until

he puffed out a breath of submission. This happened a lot when Hua was a puppy. Now that he is older Hua doesn't need it nearly as often, but occasionally we humans find ourselves asking, "Hua? Do you need to be puffed?"

This past week groceries arrived in my kitchen with a request from the shopper/provider, "Could you make Chicken Quesadillas for dinner?"

"Sure." I responded, "If you'll cook the chicken."

"Deal."

The problem came in when I discovered that we had only enough cheddar for ONE serving. Dinner was for THREE.

Sitting comfortably, feet propped up on our coffee table, the requester of Chicken Quesadillas ignored me as I stomped past, car keys and cash in hand, muttering something under my breath and shutting the front door a little too firmly, on my way to the grocery store for more cheese.

As I drove through downtown, muscles tight with anger, I noticed the beauty and warmth of the old brick buildings, the soft golden color of the sunset. My grip on the steering wheel relaxed ever so slightly. I unconsciously raised my shoulders, and let them drop again, as I exhaled a huge and audible breath.

I thought about Hua James Beethoven, then laughed as I realized it was quite possible I had just been Puffed by God.

Rw

Chicken Soup

I am in bed today, covered by a tattered star-patterned quilt, shoulders propped up by three pillows and a headboard, my little dog Harley curled up where he can see out the bedroom window. What started Tuesday as a sore and scratchy throat has become a full-blown summer cold with chest congestion, fever and cough. I went to bed early last night, without a good night kiss, my husband refusing to risk it.

This morning, as I waited for my chicken soup to warm, I walked into my husband's office and appropriated his laptop. It appears we last used it in April. Perhaps I'd better plug it in. I find an outlet in our bedroom, accidentally unplugging the clock for just a moment. It flashes an angry random time, annoyed by the power failure, demanding to be reset. I unplug it again. Who needs to know what time it is anyway?

I thought about Christine Caine, The Core Issue. She writes, "...eventually the stress and intensity of my schedule took its toll on my body, and I collapsed. Quite literally, in fact. I threw my back out, and my life came to a screeching halt." pg 46

She was forced to stop doing. She simply had to be still.

Tuesday over coffee, my friend Perry said, "Breathe. Find the sustainable pace, the rhythm, like a swimmer. Inhale air. Exhale into the water."

Christine Caine writes, "... I stopped drowning out the voice of my heart."

"Beloved, I pray that you may prosper in all thing and be in health, even as your soul prospers." 3 John 2

The laptop saves a draft of this blog. 10:54 AM.

The alarm clock remains unplugged.

Drowning.

Breathing.

A forgotten bookmark, a gift from my friend Andrea, rests at page 139 of The Core Issue, Day 1 of a study "The Art of Being ... authentic Christianity, external actions flowing naturally from an internal life lived in intimacy with our Creator."

Is today the day I begin?

Rw

Artifact

This morning as I walk my dog Harley beneath the nearly-full 5am moon, I can see my breath. The predawn air is a bit chilly and gloriously mosquito-free. Summer is stretching and rising in her final days, like a sunbather brushing the sand from a lakeside lounge chair before dragging it to the parking lot and putting it in the trunk of her car. Fall lingers just behind the curtain, like an actress awaiting her cue. I can feel her heart beating.

A random and permanent artifact greets us near one of Harley's favorite trees, the imprint of a maple leaf that included itself in a driveway and sidewalk project, summer 2001.

I remember a movie-like scene at a nurses station.
A call from the CDC. Legionnaire's Disease.
A doctor telling a wife her husband might not make it.
A firm and gentle insistence that family, her in-laws, be notified. Her teary and silent refusal to comply.

My noncompliance in that moment was a bold gamble, a risk taken without examination of facts nor prayerful solicitation of guidance.

This summer, I am grateful for the maple leaf and a loving God who sometimes simply picks me up and carries me.

Rw


The Dune is Heavy

Heartbeat

Gwen Bell – 15 Minutes to Live
We are afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death, and afraid of each other. Our age yields no great and perfect persons. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
You just discovered you have fifteen minutes to live.
1. Set a timer for fifteen minutes.
2. Write the story that has to be written.
(Author: Gwen Bell)

If only 15 minutes remain before I die, then there is not much time. If it were 15 minutes before the world ends – and I am given the grace to know, what will I say? I will speak of grace. God’s grace. I will spend these last minutes holding the hand and the heart of my husband. I will think of our children and the people our children love, I will celebrate my sisters and my friends, my nieces and nephews, and the deep connections I have made along the way with my children of the heart. In the final 15 minutes that my heart beats, I reach out and take your hand. You are so very special. You are as God intended you to be, your gifts and joys, the life of grace laid out before you were a heartbeat in your mother’s womb. Every breath drawn on this earth is a gift. Each smile a glimpse of heaven. I ask you to stop and celebrate, to look back on the joy in your life, to re-encounter the moments when life felt so very right, the moments when every piece of the puzzle that is you fell into place and you were alive with every fiber in your being. Heart. Mind. Soul. Heart, Mind, Soul in Communion with God. Not the sterile churchy communion, but true Community. Heart on fire. Mind humming with possible impossibilities. Soul feeling so deeply that the passion comes alive. I will speak of grace. God’s grace, waiting for us, not just here on earth but in the next life. I believe that yes, we can take it with us – this life, our family and friends, the people we love. Christ died because He loves us. Reach for the grace. Today. Tomorrow. Forever.