Tag Archive - Love

A Company of Women

Most of the truly great women I have known are not very flashy. They do not call attention to themselves. Daily, they do a thousand small things that over a lifetime have an incalculable impact. The lessons they offer are quiet and subtle, and most of the time we do not even realize we are learning until one day we are aware that wisdom resides in us that is not of our own making. On this day, I would like to offer a word of gratitude to some of the women God has been kind enough to place in my family. Women from whom I have gleaned valuable truths about mothering and about life. I am ever in their debt.

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The Grandmothers

Grandma Howard taught me to make ordinary things extraordinary by making them beautiful. Even though she has been with Jesus for 20 years, I sleep every night under a quilt she made. And her love keeps me warm. And just any day now her precious peonies will fill her yard with fragrance and color. Again.

Grandma Nelson showed me that food is a love language. Her table groaned under the weight of her love for us. Her legendary chicken and dumplings, vegetables from her garden, and a whole array of homemade cakes and pies. There was always more than enough. There was always room for everyone. And each delicious morsel nourished far more than our bodies.

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My Mama

What did she not teach me? She taught me to love words, to play the piano, to sew my own clothes. She taught me that when you go out on a date you should have plans for every minute you are going to be out, or bad things can happen. 🙂 She taught me to give a proper handshake and not to sing out of my nose. She taught me how to drive and how not to plant iris too deep. She showed me how to take on a scary disease with practical wisdom and extraordinary grace and how to find gifts in the hardest of places.

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Sisters in Love

Lori has taught me that sometimes mothering is letting go, and sometimes it’s going and getting. When Erin died in a car accident just before her ninth birthday, Lori walked this most excruciating of seasons with grace, and later comforted other grieving mothers in this same place. But when God called their family to bring home Keeli, then Ellie, from China, Lori was a bulldog, following all the paperwork trails and keeping things moving til she could bring her babies home.

Tammy teaches me to celebrate the uniqueness of each child. She throws the very best birthday parties, and they always say something very particular about the child. She has gone to basketball games, horse shows, 4H public speaking contests, even to the State Legislature to support her children in their many endeavors. She is, without a doubt, their biggest fan.

Candy taught me that sometimes mothering asks far more of you than you could imagine, but that it is always, always a gift. When Tucker was born with severe heart problems, she studied relentlessly to understand his condition, then became the one who tied together his disparate doctors when they did not communicate well. She poured all she had into caring for him and was grateful for every day of the 3 1/2 years she had with him.

Kristina is teaching me that love is a choice. When she married my brother, she got two tweens in the bargain who already have a mother they love. But with courage and tenacity, humility and kindness, she is walking this challenging path with grace, and I am inspired. Anna and Ethan are lucky to have two women in their lives who love them so.

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My Daughter

My daughter reminds me that love can be costly, but that it also is the source of the deepest joy. Many days, she rises before dawn to head into work and provide a life for her daughter. This year she bought a house after living frugally and saving diligently for three years. It has not been easy. But I rarely hear her complain. However, I do hear her laugh. A lot. She is having so much fun being a mommy. She treasures all the silly and confusing and unexpected and crazy things about having a three year old in the house. She is so gentle with her daughter; a trait that I am sorry to say she did not learn from me. But I am trying to learn from her.

In Her Third Year…

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Three years ago today, our world changed forever when our baby girl gave birth to a baby girl of her own. We could not imagine in that moment all the delights that awaited us. It has been a wild and exhilarating ride. And this year was exceptionally grand. It has been a year of letting go and moving on. A year of firsts. A year of long strides.

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In her third year she said goodbye to pacis, diapers, and the baby bed, and hello to a new dog, Cinderella (and Superman) underwear, and some pretty fabulous bunk beds. In her third year, she and her mommy moved into a home of their very own. In her third year she drank in language like milk, memorizing favorite stories and “reading” them aloud. (see below) In her third year she built roughly a million houses, palaces, and pieces of furniture out of Duplos and wood blocks. She painted pictures, and drew with markers, and sang songs. In her third year she danced. A lot.

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In her third year she learned to create fantastic worlds out of her imagination. She acquired a couple of imaginary friends and assigned them roles in the scenes she regularly acts out from films and books. In her third year she traveled to the beach and to the mountains, to tea parties and to the zoo. She delighted each of us with these words, “You are my best friend,” and “I been missing you all night morning.” In her third year, she befriended frogs, lady bugs, birds, and even a (slightly dead) bumblebee. She lit candles, breathed incense and prayed.

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In her third year, she helped all of us see the world again. New. With eyes of wonder. She taught us how to leap out of bed each morning in expectation that something truly wonderful awaits. Every day.

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In her third year, she stitched herself ever deeper into our hearts. She filled our lives with joy and delight. And magic. And extravagant love. Happiest of birthdays, dearest Kenzie!! I am awfully glad there is you in the world. In my world. God grant you many, many years!!

 

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*photo credits: The second and fifth photos taken by Kelsey. The black and white is a self-portrait. 🙂

I Wish You…

Dearest boy of mine,

How is it that you have come to be so grown? With ideas and dreams and thoughts all your own, with your own questions and wrestlings and hurts. From whence comes this voice to speak truth into the world, to help it see something it has never seen before? I am in awe of the young man you are becoming.

I know that today is your day for wishing, but if I were the one blowing out the birthday candles, here are some of the things I would wish for you…

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I wish you beauty. It has always been so important to you. From artful presentations of your food, to decorating the house for holidays and events, to the constant reconfiguring of your bedroom, you must make things lovely. And now you are finding beauty on the other side of a lens. Your photographs are exquisite and help me see the world anew. You are a weaver of words and a maker of music. Your creativity is without bounds. I wish you a world brimming with loveliness and the eyes to always see it.

I wish you wisdom. Acquiring it can be costly as it often comes by way of mistakes. But I pray that you will pursue it with all your heart. I pray that truth will be dear to you and that you will value it more than popularity or wealth or even what many would perceive as success.

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I wish you a lifetime of explores. Your curiosity is one of my favorite things about you. It has always been fun to watch you rummage through a hotel room, uncovering its secrets. You are the one who detours from the trail, climbing something or seeing where that little side path goes. You are not intimidated by new technology or by finding your way in unfamiliar terrain. Sometimes it takes a great deal of courage to follow untrodden paths. Bon courage, my love!

I wish you faith. I wish you a faith that is vibrant and living, strengthening and emboldening. It is a daring thing, to stake your life on something bigger than you. But you have always had a heart for God. I pray that your love for Him will only grow with your years. It has been so for me, even though there have been difficult and confusing seasons when I thought I was ready to chuck the whole thing. You too will probably have seasons of wrestling and doubt. Persevere, my love. Keep your heart open to God. His will always be open to you.

joshstageI wish you a voice. Yes, I know that your vocal skills are already dazzling. 🙂 That’s not exactly what I mean here, though it is part of it. There are treasures inside you that the world needs. Stories that only you can tell. I pray you will always find a way to tell them, whether through poetry, song, stories, photographs, plays or some medium you have not yet explored. I wish for you joy in the making of them, regardless of whether they ever bring you money or fame. The important thing is that you tell them. For you. And for us.

But

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this…

I Wish You Love.

And I hope life, will treat you kind
And I hope that you have all
That you ever dreamed of
Oh, I do wish you joy
And I wish you happiness
But above all this
I wish you love

More than anything, my darling boy, I hope that you will always know that you are dearly loved. Unconditionally. All the time, no matter what. By God, by your family, by friends. I pray that your life overflows with people who pour themselves out for you, who pursue you relentlessly, who are willing to ask difficult questions and challenge you. And I pray that you will do the same for them. I pray that your relationships are characterized by grace and truth. And by much joy.

Happy Seventeenth Birthday, my love!! May God grant you many, many years!

*Song excerpt from “I Will Always Love You” by Dolly Parton

*Photo credits: The photo at top was taken by the birthday boy, the photo at bottom by Lauren Gill Photography.

Letting Go

I realize I am holding my breath as I make the cut. Red leaves are just unfurling on the tips of the limbs, full of promise. And I am lopping them off. It hurts my heart a little, and I feel like I owe my roses an apology. But I hold my breath again and make the next cut.

Because I love them.

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Roses need air. When their limbs become all tangled, they suffocate. They stop blooming. They become vulnerable to disease. Even death.

So every spring I choose a sunny day (to strengthen my heart), I give myself a little pep talk, and I ruthlessly cut away the excess. I gather up bundles of limbs with their tender new leaves, and it’s all I can do to not cry.

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It is an inescapable irony that all this cutting away happens smack dab in the middle of Lent, when I myself am feeling the slice of the pruning shears. And I wonder if my Father has tears in His eyes as He cuts away at my excess, giving me room to breathe. Strengthening. Restoring me to health.

Instead of freedom from possessions, O Savior, I have pursued a life in love with material things, and now I wear a heavy yoke…I have discolored with the passions the first beauty of the image, O Savior. But seek me, as once Thou sought the lost coin, and find me.

Have mercy upon me, O God, have mercy upon me.

~The Lenten Triodion, Canon of St. Andrew

As I feel hunger in my belly; as I make prostrations; as I borrow words of deep repentance from those wiser than I; I wear this letting go, this cutting away, inside my body. And sometimes it hurts. I see my own tender leaves fall to the earth, and I am too much attached to them, sure that I cannot be me without them. But I hold my breath, and stretch my arms out to the Gardener as He makes the next cut.

Because He loves me.

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Jesus said, “I am the true Vine, and My Father is the Vinedresser. Every branch of Mine that bears no fruit, He takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit….” ~John 15:1-2

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Forgive Me

The temperature has plummeted 25 degrees since morning. A gray sky oozes raindrops, on their way to becoming ice. But inside, it is warm. Clouds of incense hang in the air making it sweet. And holy. Flames flicker before the icons, and soft, buttery light bathes the images of saints, of Christ and His Mother. The room is crowded with people I love. We have come here to commence the Lenten journey together. We want to begin clean; to rid ourselves of anything that might impede us along the way.

Last fall, when Mike and I hiked the Grand Canyon rim to rim, we learned the importance of traveling light. We agonized over every single item we placed in our packs. In the end, we still took too much. And we felt it every step of the way. We resolved that next time we would be more ruthless. We would carry less.

Similarly, we want to commence our Lenten journey unencumbered. So we have gathered for the beautiful Forgiveness Vespers. We pray together words about the coming fast and ask God to purify both body and soul. Then, the priest bows before each member of the clergy and says these words, “Forgive me, a sinner.” Each of them replies, “God forgives. Forgive me, a sinner.” Then the priest responds, “God forgives,” and they embrace one another.

After this, they form a line at the front of the church and, one at a time, we pass before them and have the same exchange, adding ourselves to the end of the line. So that, by the end of the evening, each of us has bowed before every other person and asked for, given, and received forgiveness. It is a deeply moving experience.

Obviously, some of us know one another better than others. Our stories are more involved. There is my wise and gentle friend and hero who teaches me, by her example, what it looks like to purposefully pursue relationship. There is the friend who knows all the worst about me and chooses to love me anyway. There are friends who have generously poured themselves out on my behalf more times than I can count. There are so many who have inextricably wound themselves around my heart, and it is an honor to bow before them and ask for forgiveness. We exchange words of love, and our embrace says all the things we do not know how to say.

There are also those who challenge me; who sometimes rub me the wrong way. And I can only imagine how many people feel like that when they see me coming. But each of us is choosing to let God use the other in our lives to refine us and make us more like Him–There is more than one way for iron to sharpen iron–And this act of humbling ourselves before one another, of forgiving and embracing one another, is a crucial part of that.

All the while, the chanters have been quietly singing the hymns of resurrection. A glimpse of what awaits us on the other side of this journey. An important reminder of where we are headed. Fragments come to me over the voices of the many penitents. “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death.” “Dance now and be glad O Zion.” “Glory to thy Holy Resurrection, O Lord!”

As the evening ends, my heart is full. And I walk out into the night as light as a feather.

We are begun.

Forgive me.

Let us set out with joy upon the season of the Fast, and prepare ourselves for spiritual combat. Let us purify our soul and cleanse our flesh; and as we fast from food, let us abstain also from every passion. Rejoicing in the virtues of the Spirit, may we persevere with love, and so be counted worthy to see the solemn Passion of Christ our God, and with great spiritual gladness to behold His holy Passover.
~from the Lenten Triodion, Forgiveness Vespers

Portraits of a Life

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I wish you could know my mother. To hear her voice as she tells a story, to see the fierce determination in her eyes as she tackles a logic problem or a Sudoku puzzle. I wish you could know how generous she is. I wish you could see her with her grandchildren, and her great granddaughter. I wish you could sit at her breakfast table. For as long as I can remember, she has been my hero.

Today my hero is 70 years old. She has packed a lot of life into her threescore and ten. Here are some of the images I have of her. Many I have seen. Some, I have pieced together from story or from photographs. (Incidentally, in the above photo, she is the pretty little girl on the far left.)

I imagine her as a little girl…running barefoot through the grass with her brother and sisters or plodding the long rows of the cornfield, dropping corn into the planting holes. I see her walking to a little two room school where her mother was her teacher. I like to think of her curled up with Heidi, one of her favorite books, letting her imagination carry her to far off Switzerland, and snow, and warm goat’s milk. I can’t think that she ever imagined she would someday travel there. But she would.

It occurs to me that I do not know who taught her to play the piano. Or if she played school with her siblings, and if so, did she always want to be the teacher? I imagine her shivering as she swam at the Moffit Hole, and playing in the barn. I see her standing beside her mother in the kitchen, learning the art of making good food.

I picture her as a high school student, too pretty to wear make-up. I have seen photographs of her in the smart, fitted dresses she made for herself. Her impossibly tiny waist. Her beautiful smile. It’s no wonder my daddy fell in love with her.

I try not to think too much about that summer after she graduated. About the tractor that died and how her daddy, a farmer, could not feed his family without a tractor. And how her daddy, a farmer, could not buy a new tractor and send her to college. I try not to think of her broken heart.

But she made the best of things and took a job in Washington, DC. This seems quite exotic to me when I think of it now. She was so very brave.

It wasn’t too long before she married her high school sweetheart. They cleaned up the little pink house and moved in and planted flowers. And there was a baby who didn’t live. And that must have been so hard. But out of meager means, she and my daddy began to craft a life for themselves. They had some babies. They bought land with a tiny little house that needed a whole lot of work. A house that would grow with their family and be the site of many, many family celebrations, and much music and laughter.

I have so many pictures of her from the years when I was a little girl. How to choose? Book on her lap, reading fairy tales and poems to my brother and me, opening fantastic worlds to us with her words. Sitting at the piano, coaxing the beautiful music from its keys that would become a siren call to me, a deep desire to know how to make that magic. Sewing machine awhirl as she stitched Easter dresses for the both of us. Working tirelessly in her flowers, surrounding our family with a beauty that I didn’t even know I needed til I left it.

I see her as she put her last little one onto the school bus and decided it was time to finally chase that college dream. She was so very brave. And even though we whined sometimes because we were no longer the whole of her universe, it was fun to see her excitement over all the things she was learning. She was a very good scholar. There is a portrait of the two of us in our graduation gowns, high school for me, college for her. Both of us on the threshold of new adventures.

I imagine her in her classroom, lighting fires in the minds of her students. How lucky they were to have her read to them. How blessed to see the fire in her eyes when she talked about all things math. How sure they must have been that this was a teacher who cared deeply about what happened to them.

I see her with her grandbabies. Traveling any distance to be there when they were born. Getting down on the floor and playing with them. Giving so much of herself to the precious one who was born sick and was not with us nearly long enough. Always the first one into the pool with them. Making chocolate gravy and biscuits for them. Seeking to know them for who they were and not who she wanted them to be.

One of my favorite portraits is a sunny afternoon in early spring. The air is crisp and cool. And my mother sits in a courtyard with her mother, my son, and me. We sing hymns. And the stroke which stole so much from my grandmother can’t take the hymns from her. And the music is this invisible chord that ties all of us up in it. And it is wonderful.

I see her as she received the diagnosis: Cancer. The fear, yes. But also this quiet determination. Simply taking the next step. I see her astonishment as people poured around her with encouragement and assistance. I see the deep gratitude she found in this hard place and how she became my hero all over again.

I see her gallivanting all over the world. Eating fresh mangoes in Hawaii. Sailing under the falls at Niagara. Opening the windows of her hotel onto a snow blanketed Germany. Gliding through the locks of the Panama canal. Exploring the wilds of Alaska. Collecting apples and maple syrup in New England.

I asked my mama one time if she ever missed earlier stages of her life. Maybe the one when her kids were little, for instance. In that wise way of hers, she said that each stage has had its great joys and its difficulties. But that for her, the best place to be is always right where she is. I love that about her. I hope that someday I grow to be as wise as she.

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Happy birthday, mama!! I love you! God grant you many, many years!

If Not You….

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On this day, 73 years ago, in Lancing, Tennessee, in a house whose wooden walls were covered with brick siding on the outside and newspapers inside, a baby boy was born. That baby boy grew up to be my daddy. For this, I am grateful.

For you, Daddy, some thoughts on what the world might have looked like if there had not been you…

If not you, who would have helped Grandpa kill the hogs and make his legendary sausage? Who would have been the star of the typing class in high school? Who would have bought the first car your family ever owned, and waited patiently, or not so patiently, with your brother and co-conspirator for the spring thaw so you could finally drive her.

If not you, who might have courted my pretty mama? Who would have looked at her perfect face, the smartly tailored clothes she crafted for herself, and her hungry mind, seeing the remarkable wife and mother she would make?

If not you, who would have tamed the wild lands of our farm, cutting underbrush, felling trees for lumber to build the barns, carving out spaces for planting, always seeing what could be? Who would have crafted our ever expanding house? Who would have plowed the garden and planted the orchard, the berries and grapes? Who would have built the arbor, the clothesline, and houses for bluebirds and bats.

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If not you, who would have fixed stuff? At home, at church, for the grandparents, even for your children as they moved into homes of their own. Who would have carved a crochet hook for Mama and me so we could make latch rugs?

If not you, who would have given light and power to homes, churches, elementary schools, nuclear reactors, and one particularly intriguing house hanging over the edge of a cliff? And who would have made sure the breaker boxes looked like street maps; orderly, beautiful, works of art?

If not you, who would I remember shining his shoes every Sunday morning, then sitting in the living room with his Bible across his knees readying himself to be in God’s house? Who would have taught me to approach God reverently and humbly?

If not you, who would have made the music? At church, at home, in the cornfield and in the car? At tent revivals, brush arbors, and river baptisms? Who would have planted music so deep in your children that it has flowed through them to your grandchildren and even your great granddaughter?

If not you, who would have looked after Grandma when she could no longer look after herself? And who would have been mama’s constant companion as she fought the ugly enemy: cancer.

If not you, who would have taught your children to be curious? To approach the world, especially the natural world, with a sense of awe? Who would have taught them that there are lots of swear words that are not exactly cuss words. 😉 Who would have taught them the names of trees? Who would have shown them how to love long and deep?

If not you, there would be none of this:

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Happy Birthday, Daddy! I am awfully glad there is you in the world. God grant you many years!

 

Shimmers…

In the ancient practice of lectio divina, one reads a passage of scripture until a word or phrase “shimmers”. The reader stops reading, and begins to meditate on the word or phrase, rolling it around and sucking all the nectar from it. Not studying, really. No outside sources. Just living with it and letting it seep deep inside.

My house is quiet today. All around me are echoes of Christmas. Shimmers. Vignettes that linger in my memory; inserting themselves over and over into my thoughts. Ordinary moments with threads of the extraordinary woven through them.

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“This is my very beautiful present,” Kenzie whispers in awe, clutching a foil wrapped copy of Where the Wild Things Are tight to her chest. She has chosen the blue bow. She runs her fingers over the shiny paper like it is silk. She does not know what is inside. It doesn’t matter.

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This.

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Christmas Eve. Expectation hovers in the air like incense. Candles, Nativity Icon draped in green, little girls turned out in smocked lawn and velvet. We read all the prophecies, all the Nativity passages. Father Stephen fairly sings the homily. It is too good to be true, this! Incarnation! God with us! The reality of it whirls around us like wind. During the Great Entrance, a whole warren of acolytes spills out of the altar. Father Stephen has told them they can all serve on this most auspicious night. Their faces glow. And God is with us, moving among us, in the Body and Blood. And we sing. We sing a truth that is deeper than we will ever fully understand.

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We named our farm after Tolkien’s mythical land because it was hilly and beautiful, and because we hoped it would always be a haven of hope and restoration to those who lived there, and to those who were our guests. We made the name part of a stone wall that framed the entrance to our long driveway. Five and a half years ago we bade farewell to Rivendell and moved back in to town.

A month ago, we learned that a neighbor had a seizure while driving and ran into the wall, leaving it in shambles. Without a word to any of us, our 16 year old drove out to the farm, knocked on the door, and asked the current owners if they were planning to re-use the stone that bore the name. When they said no, he asked if he could have it. He dug through the rubble to extricate the pieces and loaded them into his car. On Christmas morning he led us out into the garden where he had lain them the night before. And I cried.

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 Happy Birthday Jesus! Love, Kenzie. (Click HERE)

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We can hear the music leaking out the door before we cross the porch. My mom sits at the piano, and my dad, my brothers and their families, my 97 year old grandpa, and my aunt and uncle are singing their way through old church favorites which eventually give way to Christmas carols.  I am home.

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My mom has asked all the grandkids for Christmas suggestions, but has said nothing to my brothers and me. I wonder what is afoot. Each of us is presented with a lumpy, unwieldy package, variously corralled. In them, we find treasures. Quilts made by my grandmother (who is 20 Christmases gone from us, now). String quilts for one brother and myself–Mom, Dad, and Aunt Janice help us find fabrics in them we recognize and remember. A dress of granny’s, shirts for the boys, an apron… Many of them old flour sacks–And for my baby brother, a red and white Drunkard’s Path that my grandmother stitched the summer my mom was carrying him.

Amazing, all that gets accidentally sewn up into quilts. I hold it in my hands, and I hear the treadle of Grandma’s sewing machine. I am a little girl playing under her quilting frame, a legacy from her own grandmother, that hangs from the ceiling like a table, while she pushes the needle in and out with her thimble. One tiny stitch after another. I recall the smell of her: line dried laundry, coffee, Bruton snuff, Juicy Fruit.

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I am curious. What are the shimmery moments from your Christmas? The ones that make you smile every time you think about them. Please, share. 🙂

 

Wounded by Love

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I have run to the fragrance of your myrrh, O Christ God,
For I have been wounded by your love;
do not depart from me, O heavenly bridegroom.

I knew I was going to like Elder Porphyrios when Father Stephen told me he had said, “Whoever wants to become a Christian must first become a poet.” I bought the book, Wounded by Love, and poured over the account of his life and his wonderful words. I find him easy to connect to because he lived in times so very like my own. I admire his gentle humility and his ability to laugh at himself. His sense of wonder and his goodwill toward all living things, are beautiful. His accounts of divine eros and spiritual ecstasy make me hungry to know God like he knew God. But mostly I am drawn to the great expanse of his love.

On Wednesday of last week, Elder Porphyrios was elevated to sainthood. Today, on the 22nd anniversary of his death, he is commemorated by the church. On this occasion, I thought it fitting to share some personal favorites among his many challenging and lovely sayings. I hope they will invite you to come to know him yourself as a guide and friend.

On Divine Eros:

porphyrios2All ascetics long for this divine eros, this divine love. They are intoxicated with divine inebriation. With this divine intoxication the body may grow old and pass away, but the spirit becomes youthful and blossoms.

The soul of the Christian needs to be refined and sensitive, to have sensibility and wings, to be constantly in flight and to live in dreams, to fly through infinity, among the stars, amidst the greatness of God, amid silence.

On prayer:

If your soul repeats with worship and adoration the seven words, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me,” it can never have enough. They are insatiable words! Repeat them all your life. There is such life-giving sap within them!

On Spiritual Struggle:

Do not fight to expel darkness from the chamber of your soul. Open a tiny aperture for light to enter, and the darkness will disappear.

Attack your passion head on, and you’ll see how strongly it will entwine you and grip you and you won’t be able to do anything…Let all your strength be turned to love for God, worship of God, and adhesion to God. In this way your release from evil and from your weaknesses will happen in a mystical manner, without your being aware of it and without exertion.

A person can become a saint anywhere…Look on all things as opportunities to be sanctified.

On the Mystery of Repentance:

Every day I think that I sin, but I desire that whatever happens to me I turn it into prayer and I don’t keep it locked within me. Sin makes a person very confused psychologically…Only with the light of Christ does the confusion depart.

Despondency is the worst thing. It is a snare set by Satan to make a person lose his appetite for spiritual things and bring him to a state of despair, inactivity and negligence.

When a person makes confession, grace frees him from his psychological wounds…Don’t let’s turn back to sins we have confessed. The recollection of sins is harmful. Have we asked for forgiveness? Then the matter is closed.

On Love for One’s Neighbor:

Love toward one’s brother cultivates love towards God…No one can attain to God unless he first passes through his fellow men.

We, with our love, with our fervent desire for the love of God, will attract grace so that it washes over those around us and awakens them to divine love…What we are unable to do, His grace will achieve.

On Creation:

All things around us are droplets of the love of God…The beauties of nature are the little loves that lead us to the great Love that is Christ.

For a person to become a Christian he must have a poetic soul. He must become a poet. Christ does not wish insensitive souls in His company. A Christian, albeit only when he loves, is a poet and lives amid poetry. Poetic hearts embrace love and sense it deeply.

On Illness:

I thank God for granting me many illnesses…My illness is a special favor from God, who is inviting me to enter into the mystery of His love and try to respond with His own grace.

Whatever you want, my Lord, whatever your love desires; place me wherever your love wishes. I abandon myself to your love. If you wish to place me in hell, then do so, only don’t let me lose Your love.

On the Church:

When we set ourselves apart from others, we are not Christians. We are true Christians when we have a profound sense that we are members of the mystical body of Christ, of the Church, in an unbroken relationship of love…When Christ unites us, distances don’t exist. When I leave this life it will be better. I’ll be closer to you.

May it be so.

 

 

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Last night as we drove home from early Thanksgiving in East Tennessee with my family, my sleep deprived son laid his head on my shoulder and slept. And I wondered how long it had been since I pillowed that beloved head. There in the dark quiet, as mile after mile slipped away underneath us, a treasure trove of images came flooding into my mind. Bits and pieces of a life. My life, with this darling boy of mine.

I saw him as a wriggling bundle of soft. Always hungry. Hungry for milk, yes, but hungry also for life. Voraciously drinking in everything around him. Storing it away. Making it part of him.

There was an image of him hunched over paper and pencil as wondrous pictures took shape under his hands. We were astounded by them. So was everyone else. Dragons, robot warriors, complex pieces of machinery, staggering in their detail and precision.

I saw him brandishing a sword. Usually of his own making. Ferocious grimace on his face, eyes blazing, leaping off something.

I remembered my dear boy, tender and serious, telling me that when he grows up he is going to marry me. I could never bring myself to explain to him why that was a problem.

There was Jake the explorer; stick in hand, dogs at his feet, traipsing up and down hills, across creeks, and over the wide expanse of our farm.

And Jake the Lego master, fingers flying as he gathered a gaggle of loose pieces into some extraordinary creation.

I thought of the many, many friends my boy has accumulated over the years. It is almost impossible to not like Jake. Ask anyone who knows him. Loyal, gregarious, funny, smart. What’s not to love?

I saw Jake the musician coaxing marvelous sounds from piano, guitar, mandolin, melodica, banjo…. And singing. Singing with the family on long car trips. Harmonizing with friends. Pulling something from deep inside himself and translating it into a language that we could all hear, and feel, and understand.

How many times has he told me, “Thank you for supper. It was delicious.”? How many long, deep conversations have we had about life, and love, and hurt, and joy? How many sweet hugs? How many hikes and vacations have been better because his delight made them so?

Last night, as I pillowed the head of my baby boy, my heart nearly burst with gratitude for the gift of knowing him. For the weighty responsibility and privilege of caring for him. For the way the world has been different because I have experienced it with him.

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Happy Birthday, Jake!! Welcome to your twenties. I predict it is going to be your best decade yet. I love you. Always. God grant you many, many years.

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