Piercings

I've been wanting to post something to the blog.  Over the last several weeks I've started three different posts but nothing is coming together.  I'm wanting to share about my experience reading my story in the OKC Listen To Your Mother show and also about Dad's memorial service and what it meant to me.  I'm getting stuck and discouragement is setting in.  So I'm just going to post some things I've written lately in my journal.

~*~

Trying to make sense of the massive tornadoes (if that is even possible) and the immense destruction in my adopted home state of Oklahoma along with the reality of losing my parents over these last three months.  This is like nothing I've experienced before, though I'm coming to realize that sorrow and sadness live beside the normal living.  Intertwining much like a labyrinth.  Two paths sometimes very close and sometimes very far away.  If I were to blog I would write how grief pierces.

It pains...
It hurts...

Sometimes unexpectedly like realizing  Mom and Dad wouldn't be calling on Monday after the tornado to see if we were okay.  No more check-ins with Mom and Dad.

Sorrow pierces deeply...

As the number of days grows since they breathed their last, the grief is stronger and deeper.  Maybe this will change at some point.  I don't know.  I just know that today with all of this destruction in my adopted state with people loosing all their possessions and in some cases their beloveds...the grief pierces.

I feel out of control.  No that is not right.  With Mom and Dad gone and the fragility of life before my eyes, I feel unmoored like a ship at sea maybe even a little bit lost.  The thing is I don't have some of my grounding voices.  I feel vulnerable in a way I've never experienced before.

~ * ~ 

"My heart is big and sore"...  Brad spoke these words to me in the early days of my Dad's death...a Patty Griffin lyric.  It captures my experience.  With tears in my eyes and snot running out my nose, I wonder and feel like I can't do this.  Why did they have to go now?  Why both within three months of each other?  Don't we still need our parents?  Don't we still need to have someone coach us, guide us and let us know we will be okay and that it will be okay?

I miss them a lot today.  I'm going to cherish this missing and embrace it today.  Quite unexpectedly sweet memories came back to me the other night triggered by couples dancing at a benefit concert for the tornado recovery.  I remember their smiles.  Their connection.  Their faces.  How they placed their hands in each others while they danced.  They were so cute.  I remember Dad's feet, his cowboy boots...gracefully sliding across the floor leading and guiding.  Mom's feet following, lightly sliding across the floor with beauty.  Her beautiful frilly orange square dance dress.

My first day back at work two days after Dad's service, I heard his voice of encouragement in my heart...the importance of getting back to a regular routine.  I remembered him and felt like he was with me that first day back to work.

From my Dad's co-workers
(click to see details)

Last Monday when driving home from work after the tornado, I again felt his words of encouragement.  On an unfamiliar road I could hear his voice to keep going.  I knew where I'd traveled from my starting point and although I was on an obscure tiny road, I still knew where I needed to end up.  I knew how to keep track while driving.  When I was a little girl while taking trips I'd ask Dad if we were traveling east, west, south, north, etc.  He prepared me.  He gave me tools.  I knew how to get home from an unfamiliar place.

So today this is my encouragement.  This is an unfamiliar place and scary at times, but I have tools.  I have preparation.

Also, I don't have to do this alone.  I have community around me.  We all do and it is okay to lean on that in these times.  So today in my sorrow and sadness I will remember I can get through this.  Strength sometimes looks like weakness and fear, and sometimes strength comes out of weakness and fear.

And that is OK.  Blessings to my sweet state of Oklahoma. 

Holder of Family Secrets

I've been pondering a lot about this notion of family secrets and how they impact not only the generation most closely affected but also subsequent generations.  It's the moon impacting the tides.  Two seemingly separate things, but intimately bound together.

A dear friend wrote me a personal email after reading my previous post on this topic.  We had a great conversation and she helped me gain the clarity about family secrets and what I wanted to talk about here on this blog.  I mentioned that my frustration revolves around not being able to talk about these secrets within the family and yet they have shaped and still shape some of our interactions.  I feel strongly that healthily incorporating this fact into our story will enable clearer connections.  Although the topics are known, they are only spoken about in hushed tones and only for the minimalist of moments.  One particular family secret is intimately connected with our 80-year old family cabin.

Several years ago I updated my blog template and used a picture of the sky above the cabin as my banner.  I took the picture on a day trip with my dad back in 2006 during one of our visits to Colorado.  I took lots of photos both inside and out and later used them in a video montage Brad and I put together for my parents 50th wedding anniversary.

Sky above the Nash Fork of the Little Laramie River in Wyoming

The cabin was built in 1929 by my great-grandparents on my dad's side.  They along with several families from the community built "summer homes" in a cove off the highway.  Little of the physical structure has changed over the years.  The most "recent" was adding electricity in the 1950s.  Although we have an electric hot plate, most food is cooked in a wood burning stove which keeps the cabin warm along with the fireplace.  We have an enclosed porch with a bed, a fairly good size living / kitchen area (all one room), and a back bedroom with two beds and a back door which incidentally is the way to the outhouse ~ correct no indoor plumbing of any kind.

My dad at the entrance just off the highway.
Our cabin is straight back and to the left just inside the cove of trees.
(circa 2006)

My great-grandparents had four children and the cabin now belongs to their families.  Ownership is governed by a trust put in place by my dad.  The last of the original four died earlier this year and due to my dad's declining health he wanted to understand me and my sisters' wishes regarding our fourth of the cabin.  This summer he talked to each of us individually trying hard not to influence our decision.  If we were not interested in keeping it then he thought it best to release our fourth before he died. 

Our Cabin - circa 2006

The cabin has always been a special place to me and for a long time was my most favorite place on earth.  Only two and a half hours from my childhood home and 45 minutes from both sets of grandparents, we traveled to the cabin multiple times every summer.  We opened it Memorial Day just after the last snow (removing internal posts and external shutters) and closed it in early September before the first snow (putting up post and shutters).  Usually we went up at least one other time during the summer and sometimes just for a noon picnic while visiting our grandparents in Laramie.  Names like Lake Marie, Brooklyn Lake, Little Brooklyn Lake, and Medicine Bow Peak have many attached memories.

My dad tells me that my great-grandmother and great-grandfather often went during the winter and even my oldest sister and brother-in-law honeymooned there after their winter wedding back in the early 1980s.  Snowy Range Road (Highway 130) closes to vehicle traffic several miles east of the cabin during the winter months so snow-shoeing or cross-country skiing a requirement.

Main room with the winter posts still intact.
The wood burning stove is to the right.

Recently while walking the dogs, my husband and I talked about what we (really me) wanted to do about the cabin.  I shared that it seemed "life made sense" at the cabin.  As a little girl I didn't know why my dad's last name differed from his siblings or my beloved grandfather's.  I didn't understand why my sisters and I had a "third grandmother" (actually great-grandmother) with our last name that we regularly visited, but my cousins on my dad's side never did.  These cousins never went to the cabin except when we were there.  They were always guests, a feeling foreign to me in this place.

On reflection I don't remember when I first learned our family's secret.  It seemed I always knew my dad's dad died when he was a small boy just two years old.  Knowledge of the cause by his own hand was told to me a number of years later, but I don't remember the specific conversation.  My family never talked about it openly and rarely if ever did my birth grandfather come up in conversation especially around my grandmother.  Memories and markers always avoided.

I think this is why the cabin has a mythic quality of sorts.  This summer during a family reunion I learned that my dad's dad built the cabin's back bedroom.  His hands touched these walls and his feet walked in this place.  Perhaps this is why the cabin means so much to my father.  In this place is a definite connection to his father, someone he never knew.  This importance he transferred to me and my sisters both consciously and unconsciously.

From the river below

During that walk with my husband he described this place as the "holder" of family memories, the family legacy and the family myth.  I knew he was right when he spoke these words.  They beautifully frame my experience, but until I wrote the previous paragraph I didn't grasp the full truth.  This is the only place on earth where my father walks where his father walked, opens doors he opened, builds fires or eats meals.  This is his place of connection.

I know I've got more to write and more to puzzle through regarding the ongoing impact of this family secret, but for now this is a good place to rest.

Blessings.

A Connection to my Grandfather

On our recent trip to Taos, we stopped at a Texas rest area just outside the OK-TX border.  I took the camera with me, not even sure why.  I'm sure glad I did.  Inside the ladies room the walls were tiled with an interesting mosaic of the North Texas landscape.

The tile work triggered a special memory of my grandfather.  He and my great uncle designed a number of buildings on the University of Wyoming campus and one in particular has a special place in our family's lore.  The story goes that the inspiration for the Classroom Building came from one of my mom's casserole dishes.  The exterior of the building is quite stunning and for its time was forward thinking in the amenities for classroom instruction.

UW Classroom Building (center) - Photo courtesy Wyoming_Jackrabbit
via  Creative Commons copyright

My grandfather and great uncle envisioned four mosaics in each of the directional corners to represent the state of Wyoming.  Each mosaic was designed by an art professor at the university.  As a little girl I remember my grandpa sharing about the project at their dinner table and I remember seeing the mosaics for the first time.  The building was dedicated in 1971 and underwent significant renovations in 2007 to bring it to current standards.

Several years ago at the suggestion of one of my husband's friends, B and I got copies of the architectural plans from the UW archives (American Heritage Center) and put together a beautiful remembrance for my mom and dad.  We spent several hours looking through boxes and settled on a few drawings.  It was a sweet treat to watch B in the archives, a place where he's spent many hours.

Here is a picture of my dad after opening the Christmas gift.  I know that gift touched a deep place in his heart that day.

The Sound of Music

Of late I've found myself listening to George Winston's December in the early pre-dawn hours.  Waking about 3am racing thoughts of incomplete projects and open issues swirl around my brain.  Listening to these piano compositions slow my heart rate and calm my thoughts.  Usually I fall back to sleep during the opening track entitled, "Thanksgiving."

I first heard the album in 1982 while studying in the Music Lounge during my freshman year of college.  Several years later we bought cassette tape and eventually the CD.  Fast forward to 2006 and the music found its way onto my first iPod, but remained unplayed for many years.

I'm not sure what prompted me to call up the album recently.  Of late I've discovered that music infused with piano leaves tracks of something good in me.  My husband and I recently heard Jimmy Webb play his original compositions on a huge grand piano in a 100 seat venue.  At times tears welled in my eyes from an unknown place.

As I've been musing about this, I remembered that most afternoons while growing up my mom played our piano for an hour or so before starting dinner.  I expect this was something she did even before she and Dad married.  I can't help but wonder if since my conception piano instrumentals have been part of me.  Who knows and in some ways it doesn't matter.  I just know that this sound of music is delicate and tender in my soul.

Finding My Stories

In my attempts to "Reach Out" more in 2010, I want to share some of my stories. Maybe it's actually getting back my stories. Last week at lunch with my Wednesday lunch friend, I shared about an "untangling" that's happening in my life. A painful, but good untangling.

This is an old, old pain and one with lots of layers and a long cyclical history. Some of the tentacles are from being a "causality of war" in a family confronting its own issues and the resulting family dysfunctions and coping mechanisms that inevitably result.

As we talked something in what I shared evoked a memory in my friend of an NPR story from several years ago. Out of pure giving, a man sat on the Washington DC mall with his typewriter and listened to people's stories. He then typed up a short paragraph on what he heard, in essense giving back their story. Tears welled up in her eyes. I asked why. Her answer was, "I would be so honored to give people back their stories."

I don't know exactly what this means, but it touched a broken place in my heart. Perhaps because in some ways I feel like my family after at least 35 or 40 years of sobriety have never dealt openly with the wreckage of addiction and codependency. In the hidden turmoil, I think I lost my stories or lost those things most precious to me. Maybe this "reaching out" is a way for me to reclaim what's most meaningful to me.

Recently my city was hit by several damaging tornados. Dear friends of our neighbor lost their house. They've returned to the property several times recovering what they can and hoping to find their most precious things. (We recently heard they found a very dear 1929 banjo; a treasured possession of the wife who is an artist and musician.). We all know it's a long painful process for this family. They are grateful to be alive and now they face the destruction; sifting, sorting, remembering ... keeping, tossing ... weeping, expressing gratitude.

They can't just walk away from their house and possessions and yet it feels like my family "walked" away from the wreckage once sobriety came. Few acknowledgements of the dysfunctions that contributed to the addiction or that grew from coping with the confusion.

At lunch my friend also shared a story from the Big Book that so aptly applies. Here is the full text:

The alcoholic is like a tornado roaring his way through the lives of others. Hearts are broken. Sweet relationships are dead. Affections have been uprooted. Selfish and inconsiderate habits have kept the home in turmoil. We feel a man [*or a family member] is unthinking when he says that sobriety is enough. He is like the farmer who came up out of his cyclone cellar to find his home ruined. To his wife, he remarked, "Don't see anything the matter here, Ma. Ain't it grand the wind stopped blowin'?" (pg. 52)

[* comment added by my friend.)

So I take courage from those facing the turmoil and loss from the tornados and I begin sifting through my stories. I hope to find those most precious to me even if they might show water damage, broken glass, or only a partial picture.

I am believing there is beauty even in these.

NOTE: Tornado photo courtesy KOCO.

One, two, Three...the answer is Three.

A funny memory came back to me today. My co-worker has a candy dish on his desk full of Hershey kisses, starbursts, jolly ranchers, and tootsie roll pops. I haven't seen a Tootsie Roll pop in ages. My defenses were down (stress up) and I grabbed one of the suckers. I instantly remembered when I was about 9. My middle sister (11 at the time) decided she would answer the question posed at the end of the famous commercial. She licked and licked and licked and licked...each time keeping track on a pad of paper.

Me on the other hand. One, two, three...crunch.

P.S. Guess what my sister does for a living. She's an accountant. Me...not an accountant. :)

My Grandma's Animal Families

1. Grandma's Animal Families, 2. Ducks, 3. Kangaroos, 4. Sheep

I've struggled a bit with the Unravelling- Favourites photo assignment and I'm not sure why. But as I thought about more of my favourite things I remembered my Grandmother's collection of Animal Families. As long as I can recall she collected these little figurines. She displayed them on one of her window sills. As a little girl I remember her showing me her latest addition. I also remember her sharing about different types of families; some had lots of children, some no children, some with only a mom or dad. Some were blended families and some had adopted children. (In fact the sheep family is just that. Two of the little lambs have different faces than the other little lamb.) I think she even had several single member families.

I think she had upwards of 50+ families - farm animals, sea creatures, even some insects. When she died my dad and his siblings split up the collection and my father graciously gave me and my sisters each three families.

I had forgotten how special these little things are to me. They were on a kitchen shelf just catching dust. I washed each one individually and found myself talking to the little things. I wondered if my grandmother did the same thing when she dusted them.

As I write these words I realize how much I miss her. She died in 1995 which was before I knew for sure that I couldn't have kids. I suspected as much, but hadn't reconciled to it emotionally. As my husband and I worked through the grief we came to the place of seeing ourselves as a family even though we didn't have kids. I imagine that my grandmother planted this truth deep in my heart before I knew this would my path.

Unexpected Memories

Something sweet, but totally unexpected happened on our trip to Taos. While gallery gazing and shopping with the ladies we decided to stop by the Henningsen gallery for a tour of the house and gardens.

The home was beautiful in a Frank Lloyd Wright way (from my novice understanding); the living space very open with exquisite use of light and space. The house was originally designed as a "live-in" gallery.

After walking around the living room, I walked into a spacious kitchen. It too was illuminated with lots of natural light. As I turned to my right to see the eating area I was stunned by what I saw before me. It could have been my grandparent's house. I was instantly transported back into their home.

My grandfather was an architect and strongly influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright. He, too, used light and space beautifully in his designs which was evident in the home he designed for his family. He included a large indoor planter in their dining room with full length floor to ceiling windows to make full use of the sun. It fit perfectly with their house, just like in the Henningsen house.

I choked up immediately and stood in awe at the beauty, but mostly I was sweetly stunned by the unexpected memories and feelings that came back to mind. It was one of those very precious moments.

Tidbits about Me

My sweet friend over at Okie Okasan tagged me (Yikes!). I felt a bit intimidated at first, but after giving it some thought I decided to play. So here are the rules:

• Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves.
• The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed.
• At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves a comment letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog.

My Tidbits

• Certified scuba diver when I was in the 7th grade. The scariest yet most exciting dive was the 30 ft emergency ascent which was required for certification. We removed our respirators and then ascended while blowing little bubbles through our lips.
  
  
• Dreamed about being an Olympic skier when I was younger. Although I can ski the bumps, I wasn't near good enough nor competitive enough. T'was fun to dream though.
  
  
• My biggest regret as a young teen was quitting piano lessons while in junior high. Soccer practice conflicted with lessons and of course piano practice was like pulling teeth.
  
  
• I married my best friend. B and I met for coffee every week for three years before we ever started dating. The funny thing is, his brother knew we took a liking to each other even before we knew. I met his brother and sister-in-law during a lunch get-together on our way to a Red Rocks concert. Apparently, B's brother saw something different in his little brother when he was around me. A year later we started dating. Ha!
  
  
• Over the years I've dabbled in several different types of art. I took drawing and painting lessons, but quilting is the most satisfying to me. I love the colors, textures, planning, measuring, rotary cutting, fitting, sewing, even the ripping doesn't bother me. Some day I'd like to start drawing again. My favorite medium is pencil.
  
  
• I only missed one day of school during K-12. Don't ask me how this was even possible. Either I went to school when I really should have stayed home or my parents passed along resilient genes. Probably a little bit of both.
  
  
• My first all nighter was my senior year in high school. I had a take home calculus exam and research paper due Monday morning. (Yes, I'm a bit of a procrastinator). I'm pretty sure I completed most of my research and I'd like to think I'd written at least an outline, but I can't remember. Luckily, I did well on both. Whew! Unfortunately, Monday evening was the National Honor Society induction ceremony. I was president of our chapter and aside from the fact that I'm incredibly nervous speaking in pubic, I was so exhausted that I sped through my portion of the ceremony. We were finished in 15 minutes. It was horrible. I asked my mom how things went after the ceremony, and she said, "well that was the fastest induction I've ever seen". Later that night (did I think I was superwoman or what) I fell asleep while talking on the phone. Jeesh!
  
  
• I am named after my grandmothers. I share my paternal grandmother's first name and my maternal grandmother's middle name. For many, many years I felt tremendously ashamed for not being male in order to carry on the family name. I am the youngest of three girls and my father and grandfather were the only males of their respective generations. It seems crazy now that I took on this expectation. In a sweet glimpse of goodness about 10 years ago it dawned on me that indeed I am carrying on the family name. It's just on the maternal side.
  

That wasn't so scary and really kinda fun. Now for the last rule. Although I read a number of blogs, I'm an infrequent commenter (just like my blogging), so I'm only tagging these three "lucky" bloggers.

Streak at Streak's Blog
Anglican at A New Anglican's Journey
Nina at TheArtofIt

Scholastic Book Club Order

Do you remember back in elementary school when our Scholastic Book Club orders would arrive? ...order form neatly wrapped around the books with a thick rubber band...the wonderful smell...the sound of crackling pages...the beautiful book covers.


Yesterday my husband received a book order with some research money. He ordered five books: one hardbound and 4 paperbacks. As he handed me the books I instantly transported back to 3rd grade. I looked at each book, flipped through, and of course smelled the pages. I asked my husband if he remembered Scholastic Books. He said "YES!" With a laugh I said, "this is a scholastic book order on steroids." We both laughed and reminisced. It was a cool moment.


So here's to Scholastic Book Club!! Three cheers!! (Here is a pic of my MOST favorite Scholastic books by Ruth Chew.)

Bruce Springsteen - Part 2

My next encounter with Bruce was my re-education by my music-fanatic-soon-to-be-husband about the real Bruce Springsteen. As I mentioned in my previous post, I confused Rick Springfield with Bruce Springsteen. In the early 80s I was a big fan of Rick Springfield. What teenage girl wouldn't have been?? Good-looking soap-opera-doctor turned singer. A couple of girl friends and I went to Red Rocks to see him in concert. Yipee!!

Bruce Springsteen's Tunnel of Love album was released the year we were engaged. We listened to the album over and over again, so it was very much a part of the early years of our marriage. We especially liked the title track, Tunnel of Love. It aptly expressed the exciting and yet scary parts of marriage.

...Cuddle up angel cuddle up my little dove
We'll ride down baby into this tunnel of love...

...Then the lights go out and it's just the three of us
You me and all that stuff we're so scared of
Gotta ride down baby into this tunnel of love

...it ought to be easy ought to be simple enough
Man meets woman and they fall in love
But the house is haunted and the ride gets rough
And you've got to learn to live with what you can't rise above if you want to ride on down in through this tunnel of love

As luck would have it, Bruce came through our city on his Tunnel of Love Tour and a friend got us front row tickets in the side section to the concert!! (Her sister worked for Select-a-Seat at the time.) Unfortunately, my soon-to-be husband was recovering from mono. I hinted that maybe we shouldn't go to the concert and he looked at me like I'd gone mad. I soon discovered why.

The concert was absolutely amazing. Bruce played for at least 4 hours. Every minute was fabulous. He sang. He played. He rocked. He danced. He jumped. The eStreet Band...Clarence and Patti. Wow!

At one point he hopped onto a speakers on our side of the stage. He looked down at our section while singing his heart out. My husband (to be) looked at me and I looked at him. At the same time we said, "He LOOKED at ME!". It was an amazing moment. We had a great time at the concert and we were completely spent by the end. Supposedly Bruce came out for yet another encore. Who knows. I'm not sure we could have lasted. I was completely exhausted and I didn't even have mono.

Bruce Springsteen - Part 1

This morning I read a new blog called penni for your thoughts. In one of her recent entries she mentioned seeing Bruce Springsteen in concert as a non-fan and coming away as a fan (see her post comments).

I got to thinking about my own encounters with Bruce and his music. My husband and his music loving friends are mortified when I share my early confusion over Bruce Springsteen and Rick Springfield (but that's another story).

I first heard of Bruce back in the 80s while reading a memoir of sorts in a local newspaper at a downtown sandwich shop. The writer told of an experience listening to a Springsteen song while driving his car through town and the open country-side. (I don't remember the song, but I'm guessing it was Thunder Road.)

He described the song, the lyrics, the sound of Bruce's voice and the music. All this while describing his drive through town and the countryside. Perfectly timed music with starts, stops, turns, acceleration, letting loose. I'd never heard of people connecting to music this way.

It was magical and I got caught up in his experience. This was 25 years ago...mind you...I'd never heard the song nor knew of this Bruce, but after reading this piece...Wow. Little did I know what was awaiting me...

What Kind of Clouds?

Earlier this week a dear friend of mine and I ate lunch together which is our weekly practice. This week she seemed especially down for some reason.

During our conversation a painful memory came to mind when she was a tiny little girl, perhaps 3 or 4. While staring at the clouds in wonder she asked her grandmother, "If you were God, Grandma, what kind of clouds would you make?"

Her grandmother's response was, "Honey! Don't ever make yourself equal with God!" Her grandmother's words still bruised when they came to mind and I could see the hurt and shame she still carried.

It just broke my heart, but then from a gentle sweet place a question came to my mind. I looked into my friend's eyes and bent forward just slightly. I asked with a big smile on my face, "If you were God, what kind of clouds would you make?" The look in her eyes was of a delighted beloved child. With a tiny shy expression, she looked at me and smiled through teary eyes. She knew that day that God delighted in her question.

I think He is still pausing to hear all her ideas.

Detective Agencies

While walking my dogs today I stumbled across a piece of cardboard in the grass.
Something caught my eye so I took a closer look. It was an advertisement for a detective agency. (2 years experience. Call now! $.25 per case. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. )



It really tickled me. As I finished my walk I thought about the "make believe" games I played as a kid. The memory that stands out most is riding bikes with my sisters. We pretended we were on fast stallions racing against the wind speeding down hills. We attached a piece of string to the handle bars for reins. Go Thunder! Go! Ride like the Wind!

(I also recall that we buttoned up our sweaters and then pulled them over our heads so they looked like long flowing hair!!)

A flood of other stories came back to mind. One of my sisters setup an adoption agency. She registered the names of make-believe kids on index cards. Each card had a name and their story, and notes indicating successful adoptions.

Several years ago my nieces came to visit. They too setup a detective agency. It was pretty impressive. They sat in the truck bed parked in the driveway watching cars as they drove by recording details and license plates. In their pads of paper they dutifully recorded their observations. They had a blast and played for hours and hours.

Imagination...a wonderfully delightful thing.

Grandma's Wedding Wish

My grandmother wrote these words to me when I got married a number of years ago. In the card she wrote,

"Keep in mind this little wedding wish which was with one of our wedding gifts and has really helped when there have been a few rough times in our 55 years together. I love you, Grandma Marie"

I love you, too, Grandma!

Pine Trees ~ 18 months later

About 18 month ago I posted a blog entry called Pine Trees. This is a follow-up entry that's been rolling around in my head for awhile. In the original post I talked about my sorrow at cutting out our diseased trees. I knew it had to be done, but I really didn't want to because somehow even in their diseased state they were still a comfort to me.

This metaphor spoke powerful words to my soul at the time, for I had come to a place where I was ready (and able) to deal with several painful memories (25 year old ones!!) that when remembered brought back the same emotional reaction and sorrow as when the memory was first made.

As I reflect back on those memories, today their sting is all but gone. I can remember without the painful emotions and it feels good. Some of these memories were about misunderstood grief. Some were about great loss, disappointment, and failure.

I've come to realize that forgiveness is such a big part of dealing with painful memories and beginning to "have life more abundantly" and "to have it to the full" (John 10:10b). I struggled with the concept of forgiveness for many years (and still do at times) because it never made sense to me. If I forgave the person, then somehow it felt like I was saying everything was "okay" and that the offense was no longer wrong.

Some years back I heard a teaching that began my trek toward genuine forgiveness. The gentleman spoke on the difference between forgiveness and reconciliation. This was a revolutionary concept for me. For in my mind they were one and the same thing ~ intermingled and intertwined. The cloudy murky concept slowing (!!) began to change.

Forgiveness is a singular activity. It is something I do within me, and I don't need the other person to participate in the process for me to forgive. Reconciliation is a bilateral process, requiring the participation of both parties. For there to be genuine reconciliation, I need to forgive and the other person needs to show godly sorrow over what he or she has done...reconciliation is optional and depends on the attitude of the offender. (p. 46 - Real Solutions for Forgiving the Unforgivable - David Stoop)

I began to grasp the idea that releasing others from their debt (forgiving their debt) actually released me from my own death grip (which incidentally I didn't realize I was bound until I was free). I was able to genuinely say, "God I forgive xx for the debt they owe me. They no longer owe me anything. I release them from whatever debt I hoped they would pay."

"To 'for-give' is, in the English language, an extended, expanded, strengthened form of the verb to give. By intensifying the verb we speak of giving at its deepest level, of self-giving, of giving forth and giving up deeply held parts of the self." We give up the right to revenge, to perfection, to justice, and instead we give forth to ourselves - or to the other person - freedom from the past and an openness toward the future. Forgiveness is a gift we give ourselves and others. (p. 19 - David Stoop)

Yes, it was a gift I gave myself. In letting go and "cutting out the diseased trees" this area is now open and free. I'm now ready to receive the planting of something new and something healthy.

* * *

By the way, this spring my husband and I planted an Oklahoma redbud in place of one of our pine trees. Our new redbud looks healthy and strong and even survived those fierce winds we had several week ago. The tree bent over almost to a 90 degree angle, but it straightened right up when the winds subsided. It was a beautiful thing to see.

Equality and Equal Standing

Here is my first installment on church memories, which influenced me for good and calling me to live out Jesus’ commands.

During the Christmas Eve service back in December I noticed that all the acolytes were female. Tears welled up as I remembered the times I, too, served as an acolyte back in the 1970s. My oldest sister was the first female acolyte at my church. I followed in her footsteps several years later along with my middle sister. (For those unfamiliar with the liturgical worship service, acolytes assist the priest as they prepare the sacraments for Holy Communion. Acolytes also light the sanctuary candles, carry the financial offerings from the people to the priest, and present the crucifix during the processional.)

Anyway, as I watched those young ladies during the Christmas Eve service I was gratified to see females continuing to perform this service at the Lord's Table. I am grateful to have been raised in a church that allowed women to serve right beside men. From a relatively young age I saw the verse written by Paul, “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” lived out in practice. Galations 3:26-29

I married a man with courage and insight to question cultural teachings passed down through the generations regarding out-of-balance gender roles. I’m grateful for this. His intellect and adept logic keep me on my toes, yet he listens to me and learns from me as I do from him…equality and equal standing.

My mother and father also influenced my thinking regarding gender equality (probably more than they realize) though they would not describe themselves as feminists. Dad and I often discussed politics, economics, and religion. He encouraged me to pursue a career of my choice and erected no barriers based on my gender.

My mom taught me that Jesus was the first women’s liberator. Her comment now makes sense in retrospect as this was in the 70s during the modern feminist movement. Jesus’ respect of women was radical during the first century. He loved his women followers just as he did his male followers. He welcomed women into his midst, called them to follow him, touched them, conversed with them, healed them, ate with them, visited their homes, and received gifts from them. He also trusted a woman to be a reliable witness of his resurrection during a time when women were considered unreliable witnesses and easily deceived.

Doesn’t it seem that Jesus restored women’s dignity? He telegraphed a value statement, i.e. communicated value to them by his actions. He invited them to be at “his table” by eating with them, speaking to them, listening to them.

Respecting the value of both men and women and abolishing barriers that prevent each from fulfilling their life's mission seems a worthy cause and a foundational principle worth choosing.

Advent

Today I read a new blog, Velveteen Rabbi, recommended by RLP. Velveteen Rabbi recently wrote a post prompted by her experience at an Advent service with a friend. She ponders questions about taking pleasure in the rituals of other faiths. A wonderfully thought provoking post.

I loved her description of the Advent candle lighting ritual.

Peter and his congregation lit the first candle in the enormous evergreen wreath that hangs from the vaulted ceiling of their church. Next week, two candles. Then three. Then four. And on Christmas Eve near midnight, they'll light the central candle, the final light, from which flame will be brought down to light the small tapers of everyone in the room.

Leaving aside for the moment the matter of Jesus, who is naturally a problematic figure for most Jews, I love this Advent ritual. It speaks to me. November has been a dark and in many ways difficult month; in my own personal world I feel the need for light, and when I steel myself to listen to the news it's clear the larger world needs some light too. This lighting of candles to celebrate the gradual revelation of spirit is a metaphor made manifest. Last year I was at Peter's church on Christmas Eve, and the experience of watching the light come down from the rafters and fill the room, tiny flame by tiny flame, was powerful. (Velvateen Rabbi)

Oh, how it brings back such sweet memories of Advent past. As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up in the Episcopal Church. My church was a relatively small parish of about 100 people. I loved the little church and have many fond memories of the people and community we shared.

Our church sanctuary was beautiful: a large stone altar in the center and a lectern and pulpit to either side. Above the altar hung a large austere silver cross. It descended down from a naturally lit vaulted ceiling.

Anyway, the advent season…the candle lighting service…purple, pink, white…such sweetness…such reverence. I’m transported back to those times I participated in this wonderful ritual. I’m grateful for Velveteen’s beautiful description. Precious, simple, yet profound.

Sweet Healing Music

My friend who writes the blog, A New Anglican’s Journey, posted music for Divinum Mysterium in the Advent posting. The song's name was not something I recognized, but the music and lyrics are precious to my heart.

My mother played the organ in the church where I grew up and she played this song during Christmastime. The music brings back wonderfully good feelings and memories from my childhood in the Episcopal Church. I always loved the Advent season when I was a little girl especially the candle light service on Christmas Eve: the candles, wreathes, poinsettias, the smells, the green and red, the air of expectation. Something about it always gave me pause and awe, and sometimes sweet tears.

As I listen to this piece of music over and over again tears roll down my cheeks. It's been a long time since I've felt good feelings about the church. I thank my friend for posting this piece of music. It is a precious glimpse of goodness.