Living the Story

As the year 2013 lingers to say,  “Good-bye on December 31^st, my thoughts of the last twelve months jostle for space.  It has been a year without any writing achievements. Writing makes me feel alive, feel purposeful and yet I’ve failed to complete all the wonderfully promising stories I started.

 My report card could really read: “Could do better”. I enjoyed the transitions of my nieces graduating from high school and college.  I did not realize that when I went to Atlanta for the party of my eighteen year old niece that I was  going to have such a fantastic time; although I had crashed in bed before the congenial police arrived. Their arrival at my staid brother’s house created a legend.

In another unfinished story, I remember the phrases of pathos overcrowding my mind struggling for coherence as I visited a sick friend.  Watching his thin face contoured by illness, I reflected on other times when we sampled wines from a dozen countries, enjoyed hill top holidays and slept within the sound of a gushing stream, which fed the loch. During the visit, he toasted us removing himself from the wishes for longevity. This omission rips my heart, suggesting that he had already confronted the reality of an early death. We said nothing to fill the heavy silence that had descended on us. Reliving healthier times reminded us of how much we shared, how close we had become and how much we had to lose.

Blood is thicker than water may be a truism but in my life the loyalty and love of unrelated folk have astounded me. This year I realized how extraordinary my life has been but my thanksgiving chronicles remain unwritten.

As the months have sped on and I have been absent from writing, I have missed the pleasure of painting pictures of the mind. However, Chris, my fiancé, and I have been busy creating a love story written by actions. I have great hopes that this might be my best story yet.  Truth can be stranger than fiction and one day I will write in words our narrative of love.  In the meantime, as our need to know more about each other takes priority over other activities,  I feel that I’ve started the best story of my life and I hope to write another chapter in 2014.

God , the author of our Faith  continues to write His will in  my life  and  I join Him with expectancy as the narrative unfolds.

A new yardstick

It seems that a few weeks ago, I was thinking of New Year’s resolutions.  Now, the months have flown by and taken Easter with them. The year relentlessly does its job with ruthless impartiality to give us each day just twenty-four hours.

At the start of the year, I planned for so much but became becalmed by yet another transition. Forming a new relationship is not always an unmixed blessing. The debris of past failures seemed really gone until I realize that I’m no longer as trusting, accepting or hopeful as before. Experience requires change to grow but I truly wonder if my decisions are not influenced by my mistakes rather than by judgment. It is so hard to be really impartial in the aftermath of personal experience.

When I’m inclined to doubt someone because it is risk to believe, when I question rather than accept, when I probe under the pleasant surface to identify potential conflicts, I know that I’m using the past as the meter of truth. This yardstick is not necessarily unreliable. After all, my history teaches me. However, every true measurement is based on an objective standard.  Jesus commands us to love our enemies, to do well to those who seek to exploit us, to forgive times without number, to turn the other cheek. I do think that I have the right to protect my emotional health but not at the cost of becoming distrustful, cynical or hard-hearted.

I realize that however, cautious I am, I can and do make mistakes.  I am still dependent on God’s love and protection.  It is His intention that I live a life of trust and hope, not crushed by failure or limited by fears. Therefore, I will open my heart and my life to the challenge of the new. 

Enjoying the day

Another birthday but I do not worry about the passing of the years. Today, I do not want to reflect on what have been, the highs and lows, the friendships gained and lost, past adventures or escapades enjoyed or endured.

 I want to concentrate on this day, this time.  I want to savor the life I have now. This morning I waited for my alarm so I had time to read a whole chapter in Hosea. I absorbed the message that we should learn from the mistakes of others: but realize that millennia ago, the Israelites did not learn and after all this time, human beings have not still not mastered the art of learning from history. It seems that each generation asserts its right to recreate its own mistakes.

This somber reading ended in a quick prayer of thankfulness to God for His blessings and supplication for the sick or bone weary.

Then I grudgingly started my exercise routine because it soothes my joints. As the melodious voice of the handsome young man coaxed me into squatting and stretching, I was grateful to be able to keep up. I was rewarded with  the exhilaration of the cool down exercises that lasted all of today.

To have your day sandwiched by the Birthday chorus because people cared deeply enough to remember makes me really grateful, My face book friends on both sides of the pond brought me real joy because aging is a glorious process when celebrated.

To be thankful each moment because I am   loved and cherished creates a celebration . God has been good indeed.

Comforting rituals

The choir in their grey and red robes had filed in. A booming voice commanded us to rise. As we stood, a procession in solemn single file started the funeral service to the intonation of  “in my father’s house are many mansions”. The reading continued until all were seated in their assigned places. Funerals do leave us helpless, not knowing how to comfort and hurting if we are the ones bereft. The tears of the bereaved as the coffin was closed were a vivid reminder of why we were there.

Yet as the service progressed, I found comfort in the familiarity of a church service. The beautiful music soared above our grief as our feet tapped to the rhythm in spontaneous joy.

Today as I hear the bad news of my cousin’s health, fear grabbed my heart. A dark cloud of dread descended. I prayed for her and I gave thanks for myself. I am enjoying the luxury of spending a day in bed so that my blood pressure, which has been uncharacteristically high, would return to normal. If it doesn’t, I guess, my medication would be changed. How trivial this is in the light of someone’s fading life?  How meaningless my life could be in the context of the final stopwatch.

Of course, I’ve tried to be authentic but I’ve been distracted like Martha by too many things. I’ve allowed myself to be dazzled by the glare of people’s faults and failures, their superficialities and superciliousness.  Yet, the Christ in me longs to share His compassion, His indulgence, and His benevolence. We are all children of God made in His image.  I forget the extent of God’s grace to me that brought me thus far and the older folk who helped along the way.  So I pray to always remember as I try to live with meaning each day. Living with meaning involves taking meaning from simple rituals and allowing myself to believe that whatever happens, I can have joy.

 The choir in their grey and red robes had filed in. A booming voice commanded us to rise. As we stood, a procession in solemn single file started the funeral service to the intonation of  “in my father’s house are many mansions”. The reading continued until all were seated in their assigned places. Funerals do leave us helpless, not knowing how to comfort and hurting if we are the ones bereft. The tears of the bereaved as the coffin was closed were a vivid reminder of why we were there.

Yet as the service progressed, I found comfort in the familiarity of a church service. The beautiful music soared above our grief as our feet tapped to the rhythm in spontaneous joy.

Today as I hear the bad news of my cousin’s health, fear grabbed my heart. A dark cloud of dread descended. I prayed for her and I gave thanks for myself. I am enjoying the luxury of spending a day in bed so that my blood pressure, which has been uncharacteristically high, would return to normal. If it doesn’t, I guess, my medication would be changed. How trivial this is in the light of someone’s fading life?  How meaningless my life could be in the context of the final stopwatch.

Of course, I’ve tried to be authentic but I’ve been distracted like Martha by too many things. I’ve allowed myself to be dazzled by the glare of people’s faults and failures, their superficialities and superciliousness.  Yet, the Christ in me longs to share His compassion, His indulgence, and His benevolence. We are all children of God made in His image.  I forget the extent of God’s grace to me that brought me thus far and the older folk who helped along the way.  So I pray to always remember as I try to live with meaning each day. Living with meaning involves taking meaning from simple rituals and allowing myself to believe that whatever happens, I can have joy.

So many months have slipped by trailing so much news. For a writer, it seems that each day was crammed with so many storylines. Spoilt for choice, too lethargic to make a decision on the theme for the day, months slipped by.  There were so many stories in my head.

My house search all year was such hard work emotionally as well as physically taking up all my free time.  Each new listing raised expectations but the fall-out from frustrated hopes made it harder to keep the sense of adventure and hope.  Eventually I found the house of my dreams .I invested much time in shopping for the new place. I felt that after a year of being without my own home, I could be rooted again.  Two weeks before moving in, my second expert advised against it.  Despite the cost, I felt that the only prudent action was to withdraw but I’ve left a bit of my heart on the hill side.

Somehow, I made room for the extra stuff I had bought in preparation for the move and unpacked my crockery that was in packing cases for over seven years.  I know that when I do find a house, I can never pack it all up as the professional packers who transported it so safely across the seas. Yet the convenience of having it all packed up could not compare to the comfort of having it displayed now. I changed the dominant color of my furnishings to red and lifted my mood with a spirit of thankfulness. I have shelter and space. Life is good.

The process of becoming a citizen ended in a somber ceremony in the Federal courthouse. Ladies from Charleston provided refreshment and civic groups very thoughtfully provided us with the US flag, a description of how it should be used, the pledge, a summary of the amendments. There was also a letter from the President. Of course, my fellow citizens and I had passed the Civic test but to be given these in such an accessible way was truly thoughtful. The guest speaker’s passion made me tearful. True, I had not come on a dangerous journey to escape persecution or for religious or economic freedom.  I love the country of my nationality, its culture, its institutions, its health service and its peoples. So why leave?  Because home is where the heart is. For me it became unsustainable to live so far away from those I truly love.

I had agonized over the oath of allegiance. To me, it is not a form of words but a God-given pledge to be loyal to the flag above all else.  I played with different scenarios when I might have to choose. Yet my choice will never be in doubt because as painful as it might be my availability to family remains my greatest motivation. After all love of family, love of country is fundamental values. We are expected to treat foreigners well but there is also a divine directive for the alien to pray for the welfare of his “city”. God bless our state. God bless every state of our precious Union.

 So many months have slipped by trailing so much news. For a writer, it seems that each day was crammed with so many storylines. Spoilt for choice, too lethargic to make a decision on the theme for the day, months slipped by.  There were so many stories in my head.

My house search all year was such hard work emotionally as well as physically taking up all my free time.  Each new listing raised expectations but the fall-out from frustrated hopes made it harder to keep the sense of adventure and hope.  Eventually I found the house of my dreams .I invested much time in shopping for the new place. I felt that after a year of being without my own home, I could be rooted again.  Two weeks before moving in, my second expert advised against it.  Despite the cost, I felt that the only prudent action was to withdraw but I’ve left a bit of my heart on the hill side.

Somehow, I made room for the extra stuff I had bought in preparation for the move and unpacked my crockery that was in packing cases for over seven years.  I know that when I do find a house, I can never pack it all up as the professional packers who transported it so safely across the seas. Yet the convenience of having it all packed up could not compare to the comfort of having it displayed now. I changed the dominant color of my furnishings to red and lifted my mood with a spirit of thankfulness. I have shelter and space. Life is good.

The process of becoming a citizen ended in a somber ceremony in the Federal courthouse. Ladies from Charleston provided refreshment and civic groups very thoughtfully provided us with the US flag, a description of how it should be used, the pledge, a summary of the amendments. There was also a letter from the President. Of course, my fellow citizens and I had passed the Civic test but to be given these in such an accessible way was truly thoughtful. The guest speaker’s passion made me tearful. True, I had not come on a dangerous journey to escape persecution or for religious or economic freedom.  I love the country of my nationality, its culture, its institutions, its health service and its peoples. So why leave?  Because home is where the heart is. For me it became unsustainable to live so far away from those I truly love.

I had agonized over the oath of allegiance. To me, it is not a form of words but a God-given pledge to be loyal to the flag above all else.  I played with different scenarios when I might have to choose. Yet my choice will never be in doubt because as painful as it might be my availability to family remains my greatest motivation. After all love of family, love of country is fundamental values. We are expected to treat foreigners well but there is also a divine directive for the alien to pray for the welfare of his “city”. God bless our state. God bless every state of our precious Union.

 So many months have slipped by trailing so much news. For a writer, it seems that each day was crammed with so many storylines. Spoilt for choice, too lethargic to make a decision on the theme for the day, months slipped by.  There were so many stories in my head.

My house search all year was such hard work emotionally as well as physically taking up all my free time.  Each new listing raised expectations but the fall-out from frustrated hopes made it harder to keep the sense of adventure and hope.  Eventually I found the house of my dreams .I invested much time in shopping for the new place. I felt that after a year of being without my own home, I could be rooted again.  Two weeks before moving in, my second expert advised against it.  Despite the cost, I felt that the only prudent action was to withdraw but I’ve left a bit of my heart on the hill side.

Somehow, I made room for the extra stuff I had bought in preparation for the move and unpacked my crockery that was in packing cases for over seven years.  I know that when I do find a house, I can never pack it all up as the professional packers who transported it so safely across the seas. Yet the convenience of having it all packed up could not compare to the comfort of having it displayed now. I changed the dominant color of my furnishings to red and lifted my mood with a spirit of thankfulness. I have shelter and space. Life is good.

The process of becoming a citizen ended in a somber ceremony in the Federal courthouse. Ladies from Charleston provided refreshment and civic groups very thoughtfully provided us with the US flag, a description of how it should be used, the pledge, a summary of the amendments. There was also a letter from the President. Of course, my fellow citizens and I had passed the Civic test but to be given these in such an accessible way was truly thoughtful. The guest speaker’s passion made me tearful. True, I had not come on a dangerous journey to escape persecution or for religious or economic freedom.  I love the country of my nationality, its culture, its institutions, its health service and its peoples. So why leave?  Because home is where the heart is. For me it became unsustainable to live so far away from those I truly love.

I had agonized over the oath of allegiance. To me, it is not a form of words but a God-given pledge to be loyal to the flag above all else.  I played with different scenarios when I might have to choose. Yet my choice will never be in doubt because as painful as it might be my availability to family remains my greatest motivation. After all love of family, love of country is fundamental values. We are expected to treat foreigners well but there is also a divine directive for the alien to pray for the welfare of his “city”. God bless our state. God bless every state of our precious Union.

Defining Minutes

A minute can make such a difference. We can miss a flight, have an accident, break a leg, have a diagnosis that changes our life forever. After two months, I’m adjusting to such a defining minute that haschanged the trajectory of my five year plan. Now, the future is laden with possibilities and ripe with choice. After my early morning dash to the hospital fearing the worst, I feel that I’ve been incredibly blessed to have emerged without serious complications or disability. It is a gift from God and I’m truly grateful. When folks close to my heart are living with hope while watching the shadows of death, I feel an urgency to redeem the precious gift of time. Some people are so highly organized that listening to the details of their day makes me breathless and envious. However, I want to spend time meaningfully whether at play or at work. As I prepare for the last decade of work, it is imperative that time is prioritized as there are many diversions. Some, I intend to enjoy to brighten the journey but I can so easily get distracted from my primary goals. For me, getting ready for heaven does not mean winding down on earth. Living life fully is part of the preparation of the journey. The only certainty that humans have is that life will end eventually. Although, all ages die; statistically, those over sixty are closer to life’s end than those in their thirties. So at this stage, it is helpful to be dealing with greater certainty. Someone gave me estimates for wooden and aluminum steps. I wanted a structure that was maintenance free. As I was about to choose the aluminum one, I was told that the wooden step would last thirty years. Both the salesman and I laughed as we realized it’s hardly likely that I’ll be around. I think that I’ve bought the last piece of Royal Grafton china. It is beautiful but I’m undecided. Do the years of enjoyment merit the investment? After all, my family may not care for it. My Cuisinart food processor should outlive me but I enjoy kitchen gadgets so will replace whatever happens, I can see much clearer as the years have past. Distant peaks of the final mountain range can be glimpsed as time has provided me with “eterno-focal” lenses through which to view the world. Through these lenses, I can forgive human frailties, recognizing the human desire for self-preservation. Maya Angelou identified courage as the most important attribute. Recent events have convinced me that her choice reflected her wisdom. Without courage, we cannot be loyal to our convictions, our values or our friends. Without courage, we cannot seize the opportunities we are offered or anticipate and enjoy the closing decades of our lives. I plan to enjoy this journey and to learn even more along the way.

Conditional Love?

February 22nd is Ash Wednesday, 2012, the start of Lent which would culminate in the beautiful ritual of Easter amidst the fragrant lilies and vibrant spring flowers competing for attention as winter slowly retreats. I’ve enjoyed this winter. It has been thoughtful never snowing me in. My car has always started and my plans have not been frustrated by icy conditions or poor visibility. Today, I’m not wearied by the season, however long it lasts, longer, brighter days beckon.

I feel that this unusually mild winter is God’s gift to me this year.
Valentine ‘s Day celebrations still reverberate. We think of love, past and present. Whatever our status, we hope to be loved in the future for to be loved by parent, sibling, friend or lover is to have a life immeasurably rich.

I couldn’t help but remember the Bodyguard, and the poignancy of the promise as Whitney vowed “Ill always love you” That refrain is echoed in many hearts as distance and circumstances dictate that mere loving is not enough. The heart loves, the mind rules. Yes loving is a great start but we need so much more like common values, shared beliefs or equal commitment.

In the wake of Whitney’s death, this song is a constant refrain in my mind. The beautiful lyrics haunt. I loved Whitney. I’ll always love her voice but one day I may forget. Yet, I know that even if I do, the Christ who died because He loved me will continue to do so, no matter what.. From His resurrection on that spring morning He has controlled time. He has promised to be with me always, to life’s very end.
Now that is a promise, a divine contract and I know whatever the circumstance “He will always love me.’

Holiday Clips

The year is a month old. It has been a fabulous winter unless you are addicted to snow. Festivities of Christmas and New Year have long been added to our memory bank. There were many memorable moments clamoring to be captured in print. Tiredness provided a constant excuse for neglecting to journal. Now, my need to write has overcome my ambivalence about what to write about. So I’ll start with Christmas. My cousin spent Christmas with her sister in Illinois with my family, We last met more than forty years ago. The girl has morphed into a confident, vivacious grandmother. I was really surprised when my cousins’ picture of my mother was so fun-loving, funny, teasing and playful. Her eyes lit up as they recalled their stories of her so I think that mom missed that part of herself too. Children sometimes forget that their parents play other roles, showing different parts of themselves to others. My father’s absence (his second christmas away) was not paralyzing. No one cried but there was no forced hilarity either. We found happiness in being together creating new rituals in the process
On New Year’s Day, my brothers, except Wilt in Atlanta, and their spouses came to dinner in West Virginia. We had a long very pleasant evening with digestible food and great company.
On Saturday, January 28th, I returned to Illinois with my brother Emanuel, who was so very ill last year, for our father’s memorial service two days before his ninety fifth birthday. It was Emanuel’s longest ride and he drove for almost four hours of the journey. God protected us and kept us safe through the detours in heavy rain to mom’s house in Illinois. I am in awe of my sister, Esther who cares for my mother. The youngest of nine, and daddy’s princess, she is indeed living up to her name. Although sick, she remains patient and uncomplaining as she runs the home and organizes mom’s care. To welcome us, she managed to find time and energy to create a feast.

On Sunday, after the main service, we lunched with my oldest sister, Verna before the cemetery visit. As if on cue, the preachers amongst us started “in the sweet Bye and Bye”. I wished they hadn’t. However, I had my own special tribute as I poured on dad’s grave the rosemary leaves taken from my herb pot in remembrance. The service that followed was very evocative of his life. As the little church filled up, with folk who knew him, I thought what a life, what a legacy to leave something positive of yourself in the hearts of people. I have been so blessed with two unselfish and warm parents. They loved people and tried to help. These were the witnesses that they were there for the dispossessed and the marginalized. My ailing mother who rarely speaks enjoyed the service too. Despite the effort she insisted on standing with the congregation and there were many such moments. Later, at Ruth’s house where we were having dinner, we asked about the service. She said that she enjoyed the singing but insisted that she enjoyed the sermon best. Of course, the preacher was her son and despite her eighty seven years, he still had her support.

Thousands of miles away, across the sea, Dad’s forbears lay buried. He sleeps alone for now in a quiet corner of St Joseph’s garden: yet in a foreign land, he made a difference and the world is better and smaller because of him.

Junctions in the Journey

Over the last six weeks, my mind chased countless stories like a greedy child bewildered by many choices. I know that some stories would remain to warm my heart for some time yet. The glow of Thanksgiving cheer lingers amidst the hustle of Christmas preparations. The shock of seeing my mother looking aged has left me with a hunger for more visits with her. I watched my youngest sister, Esther, as she cared for Mom with tenderness, kindness and firm encouragement underlined by a passionate love and commitment. I worry about my sister exchanging her career to join so many millions of middle-aged women in care-giving but she has applied the same attention to detail in her new role and ensures that my mother’s physical, environmental, social and emotional needs are addressed. I am in awe of her quick grasp of all the issues of elderly care as it relates to mom and her approach to problem solving. As I visited, I realized that the family baby so sheltered and cushioned has been transformed into a skilful, unselfish and confident carer.

My mother stays in the kitchen when we cook or hangs out in the living room and when she goes to bed, she watches television with company. Sometimes, she will straighten a table-cloth or a cushion. She may even take a glass to the kitchen. Although she hardly speaks, she remains the center of life at home. As I fumble to find meaningful words to thank Esther, I could not help wishing that all the elderly folk could enjoy the care my mother enjoys in her own home around the familiar if only for this Season. That I have peace despite my mom’s obvious failing is largely due to Esther, lovingly supported by my two other sisters as well as a pair of helpers.

Last Saturday, while celebrating a couple’s 50th anniversary, I could not shake off the memories of my mom's 50th anniversary celebration. The joy of this occasion evoked vivid memories of another time when my parents were vibrant and death was in a far off country. We were all so young in mind and body. It was for my family a defining moment. I still have my bridesmaid dress and remembered the helium balloons floating skywards, their golden ribbons reluctant trailers. I remembered the cars honking through the streets. I remembered and in the midst of so much joy, cried; knowing things will never be the same. Dad, so handsome on that day is dead| As I chatted with the youngest daughter, I encouraged her to make the most of every minute, savor it and hold on to the joy. It is such a precious celebration in an age when long marriages cannot be taken for granted.

I am still house hunting and am about to make an offer but have an open mind. While I will never have a 50th anniversary, I want to live with passionate enjoyment and I’m looking at a place that frees me up to do that: minimum house-keeping, affordable rates and utilities. I’m from the “life is too short to stuff a mushroom” school and I want to make time to smell the roses for ever. Buying a house in late life can raise all sorts of existential questions e.g what is my real purpose in living? How do I want to spend the rest of my life? It’s even a value thing? What type of neighborhood to choose and what does it say about me? Well, you get the drift. So prayers are needed for patience and strength. Waking up at 4.30am to talk to British officialdom before their lunch requires lots of both. Hopefully, a few more calls should do it.

Truths color Lives

Modernism worshipped at the altar of science. Long held beliefs were discarded like soiled clothes as emerging facts revealed their nakedness of truth. But after a while, the pendulum swung again as we realized that even science can have a bias or an agenda. Then on the heels of swinging sixties, constructionists ushered in the postmodern age where plurality of truths was enthroned. This is in contrast to the ancient Greeks who supported different truths in relationship to each other. Today, everyone, everything has its own truth and societal norms struggle to keep up. These new truths that color our landscape do not necessarily discolor the picture of our moral certitudes. Indeed, they often illuminate some dark corners. However, landscapes devoid of all markers are like empty deserts and we risk the dangers of being lost in their tractless lands.

Today, I found myself confronted by the pain of two teenagers whose romantic life is marred by violence, disrespect and legal sanctions. I couldn’t help thinking that I was not dating at their age although I was curious about love and relationships. I day-dreamed a lot hoping that Prince Charming would ride by. Of course, there were always admirers and they gave me chocolates and candy but I was not dating and it would not have crossed my mind to live with any one of them. So I ended my teen age years leading a group of young people in their activities, planning parties, going to the theatre and always listening to older folk telling their stories. I also found lots of stories from books and I developed my passion for politics and mythology. I played pranks, kept my curfew for the most part and found a job. I emerged from the teen years with lots of growing-up to do; I'm still working on growing. However, the memories of those years bring a smile as I remain grateful for the choices I made.

Decades later, I think of these teens already weighed down with baggage I'll find intolerable. Try as I can to empathize, I cannot really understand why one should trade this special chapter of life for the derailment of broken hopes and broken bones, housewifery over the excitement of candle-lit suppers, television instead of visiting clubs or restaurants. I longed to say: You are on the brink of living. There will be periods to stay by the fire but now is the time to explore new places, things, ideas and people. Yet that would be my truth. Even after a life-time of being single, I have no regrets for my choices. Although I wished a few outcomes were different, I’m glad that I did not collect the experiences that they are enduring.

Nevertheless, these young folk have their truth and when I look in their faces and hear the excuses and protests, I feel disempowered. Society no longer helps by proclaiming its truth so each must find her own. There are no "Driver under Instruction" stickers for living life.

Singing in the Dry Season

Last night, I went to a production by dancing students at Marshall University. The talented students entertained and entranced us as their lissome, flexible bodies created shapes and structures that fed our senses. This was a modern play so sex underlined it. However, the dancing was subtle and understated which added to the dance’s meaning instead of detracted from it. Of course as my niece was one of the troupe, I think that they were all brilliant.

The arts be it music, painting, dancing or acting does not often make its students wealthy but artistes in these industries stimulate our imagination, remind us that man cannot live by bread alone. Sometimes, we need to have chocolate cake and lobsters as well as bread.

Today, at Ferguson, the pastor theme was “A song in a dry season” utilizing the story of Israel’s Babylonian captivity. I recalled Bob Marley’s lyrics: By the waters of Babylon” and the haunting echoing of the chorus which demanded to know: How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?

Well, the pastor exhorted us to praise in song and sing of God’s faithfulness even when we are having difficulties. Singing when times are good is easy but to have faith to sing that our dry season, our times of crisis, rejection or loss will pass
demands spiritual maturity. Sometimes, it is a picture that evokes faith. Sometimes, it is a sunset or dewdrops shimmering on rosebuds. As the leaves fall in kaleidoscopes of purples, browns, reds, yellows, our spirits respond with joy. Whatever our situation, the world is beautiful. Let the music begin!

Stewardship and Self

Tomorrow is Sunday, a day to meet with worshippers and celebrate the Christ.I do look forward to corporate worship but tomorrow I’ll be home worshipping from my internal space as I allow God to speak to me in the silence.

Two months ago, I returned from retreat relaxed and renewed; yet during this week, I’ve been like an over laden ship, running out of oil in the engine room, about to cross the Horn of Africa. I need to delay until I can get more supplies before I face a week riddled with commitments and challenges.

Sometimes, I treat my life with such disrespect. I paint over stress points, minimize my losses, ignore my wounds, neglect my soul and expect to function like a well-oiled machine. Yet I am fearfully and wonderfully made because of the holistically balanced measure of body, soul, spirit. Taking time to care for myself is a sacred trust not something I should do because I made a mistake that reminds me of my limitations and mortality.

So this week-end, I will worship God by taking care of his creation-working with Him to regain my balance. It would entail exercise and contemplation, tea infusions and candle-light. It would also include doing the laundry, tidying book shelves, creating order. There may even be time to really smell the fragrance of the roses I’ve bought last spring.

The world would be a better place if all children were taught to think of others and put them first. However, they need to learn that they are not expected to love themselves less. Indeed, they undermine their ability to help others if they fail to meet their own needs. This is a lesson that I am still learning with the greatest difficulty.

So with 2011, nine months old, I can admit that it has been a sad, difficult year with several unrealized goals. I also know that many more challenging moments lie ahead before calm seasons come; but the year has been littered with God filled moments so definitive that I saw His headlights. God is with me. My main job is to tend His body.

Worship and Write at Laity Lodge

Thousands of flamingoes rose in unison above the Great Rift Valley to embrace the dawn. Their fly-past draped the clouds in gold, leaving me speechless as it abruptly ended. I’ve also enjoyed the gardens of Versailles, the fragrant flora of Burma’s Middle Kingdom, where the abandoned pagodas testify silently of former glories.

Yet last September, as the truck edged its way along a Texan riverbed, despite the tiredness of day long travel, I suddenly felt on the brink of adventure. In unexpected places and ways God often meets with us and I did enjoy the exploration in creativity: thinking, seeing and writing I found during the retreat.

Laity Lodge utilizes the physicality of our world in such a unique way that it created a hunger for the Creator of the universe. Pictures in the gallery and expertly crafted sculpture in its natural setting were easily accessible. Man-made fountains gurgled and entranced, not caring that a river ran below. In the heart of the canyon beyond the reach of cell phones, hills beckoned to higher ground. The whole canyon reflected dignity of work and celebrated the work of men’s hands. The celebrity authors, poets and musicians and craft teachers who shared their gifts also stimulated me spiritually .as well as intellectually . I was often surprised and overwhelmed by the generosity, consideration and helpfulness, the attention to detail. Serving God through work is my highest calling and this place revived my soul.

It is the only place where I could dabble in paint not caring what I produced. The process was liberating and it was here in the poetry workshop so brilliantly led by Scott Cairns that I learnt to use scripture in a new way.
I did leave a better writer and I would like to return for a fiction workshop as that was my first choice. Nonetheless, Laity Lodge offered more than the excellent work-shops. The created environment made the imagery of the lion and lamb laying down together more vivid as I knew that harmony with nature would be achieved.

Although I’ve visited some amazing places and seen some phenomenal things, Laity Lodge fed my eyes, my soul and my spirit. They also feed the body too. It’s not just a place. It is a point of communion with God, with nature, with your inmost self It is a unique experience that is not only unforgettable but also life changing. I’d love to re-visit and re-charge. I’d love to learn and write. If you are interested in the arts, please visit http://www.laitylodge.org/writers-retreat-ii/

Even if you are not, it is a place worthy of one’s bucket list. See for more details http://www.thehighcalling.org/win-free-trip-laity-lodge-writers-retreat or @laitylodgeretreatcenter.

I feel blessed that I’ve gone and would dearly love to go again.

A time to celebrate

After the storms, Saturday was a, cool, clear day. Days are only memorable when events make them so and the eightieth birthday of a retired coal miner was really delightful. The whole celebration was so lovingly and carefully planned that guests were treated to more than a glimpse of a devoted family man of God This man filled many shoes with distinction. Senators and other leaders saluted him with gracious words but the tributes of his children and family are what really resonated in my heart.
When we are eighty, the world is engaged largely through children and the friends who have managed to survive with us. If we are extremely blessed we still have friends to share a high school moment, exchange memories about working with a tough boss or to recall the frolics of our children. We sit in companionship with these friends who have travelled with us and need not speak because they know us and of us.
However, Saturday was a day for remembrance to hear of a life through the narratives of his family and friends with themes of sacrifice, loyalty, and heroism intertwined. What a life story! Many chapters remain to be written.

The music was feet -tapping good, the food excellent, and the peanut fudge so delicious that I ignored feelings of guilt and ate a second piece. So full of good cheer, I reflected on the excellence of this party and thought how much it suited my style and temperament.

My satisfied state was rudely interrupted by memories of my aunt’s 80th celebration. She arrived in a sky blue gown with a train of sea blue on the arms of a gentleman in his fifties who led her to a dais shimmering with lights. At 2am in the morning, as her guests reluctantly left, each with wine specially bottled, she invited us to her house for a cookout to see the day in. I was tired but I declined because I had to leave at 4 am for my red-eye flight. My eighty year old aunt amazes me, intrigues me and occasionally horrifies me. But I admire her tremendous spirit. I enjoy her sense of style, her joie de vivre. Now, I have two models to emulate. Would it be finger- licking fudge or woody wine?

Food, Fun and Fellowship

It’s been a month since I started to write about the celebration in honor of Dr Huang, the John Hopkins neuro-surgeon who saved my brother’s life. God uses many channels to heal and we remain in her debt forever.

While festivities provide an enjoyable break from routine they can also be disruptive. Since my mother and sister left for St Louis, I find myself unable to regain my stride and the delicate balance between work and leisure.

Yet these last four weeks of dis-ease have not been without their memorable moments.
I wanted so much to learn photograph but during classes, my pink and purse fitting camera broke. I resisted buying one of the DSlRS but succumbed. By then, the classes were over so I missed a good opportunity. Yet, I was able to take photographs of a house where families cooked, loved, fought and played being burnt to the ground as the first step towards re-building. I couldn’t help feeling sad as the focus of all those memories lit the night sky.

ON July 2nd I spent a most relaxing afternoon in a forest in Beckley. For the first time, I watched horse-shoe being played. Tried a few throws and missed. The catering reminded me of scenes of medieval feasts where dish after dish arrived to tempt groaning stomachs to have one more bite of this or that. It might be fish or ribs or maybe the corn one forgot first or second time round.

Of course, cook-outs provide more opportunities for eating until my stomach protested. One had so much food that we continued after Church the next day.
The Church picnic itself was not exempt from temptations of over-eating as the grills sizzled and the air was heavy with delicate flavors of well -cooked meats.
Food, fellowship and Fun should not be restricted to summer. As social beings, we are programmed to get together. For many people, Sunday is the day where the single or the lonely, the student or visitor could enjoy home cooking and fellowship after Church.

I am indebted to those folk who shared what they had with me, teaching me many skills in the process and giving me the confidence to go and do likewise. When there are so many restaurants, it might be even more economical in time and money to eat out. However, sharing food at home in fellowship feeds body, soul and spirit. So when you ‘re invited to dine with me, please say Yes. I really want to celebrate knowing you in a personal way.

Finding Mama

The cloudy day has not dimmed my spirits as I recall the sunny Saturdays of the 11th and 18t . My mother is beautiful and elegant. At eight- eight, she often succeeds in losing Alzheimer’s, remembers the faces of family, thrives on domestic chatter and in the words of her youngest daughter and carer “can hang with me”. This includes leaving home at 6.30AM and returning at nightfall for extended days out. Hanging out involves having flights delayed, cancelled or re-routed so that her journey time is eight hours longer. She gets to son's house completely orientated in place and names. She eventually makes it to bed past midnight without a single complaint.

I am in awe of this woman.

We shared no common interest during my childhood. Attempts by my mother to get close to her firstborn were thwarted by my disinterest in shopping , cooking or any thing remotely feminine. So most of my life, we loved each other but not our lives. Yet, I always knew that hers is a complex personality. In a crisis, she is a rock, in grief dignified, in tough times, loyal, always generous, a sharer of what she has but a hoarder of her thoughts.

Age and re-location have forced a walk in my mother’s shoes. As I reflect on the journey, my admiration of my mother intensifies. I long for her courage and her strength. Her commitment to do the right thing, her sense of duty and her hospitality are impossible to emulate but still they inspire me to try.

Now, at this time of our lives, our paths intertwine as we draw closer in interests.
On the 11th, I shared with her the joy of my brother’s successful surgery. Then on Sunday, we went to Church together. I am delightfully surprised that these days, a Sunday with mama is the highlight of the week.

Another step

After the distractions of the last week , this week has blessed me with warm weather and good news. After the waiting and many false starts, I have a definite offer for my house. Of course, until she signs on the dotted line, she is free to change her mind but I am optimistic. I have seen the clear fingerprint of God in this and am hopeful. Strangely, now that I have reached the end of the beginning, I am surprised by my ambivalence. So many fond memories are rooted to that house, so many great ideas were birthed there. Many relationships blossomed into cherished friendships.
In that house, people of all cultures, classes and races gathered around my table or spilled over the lawn or field beyond. Children romped and were never out of place. When I think of huge American homes, I am somewhat astonished at the company and comraderie that found place within that small five roomed house.
While I enjoyed that house for the people who blessed me with their presence, I would miss it for more personal reasons. I learnt to pour cement, tile walls, neither of which I’ll do again. I also painted everyone of its walls. My friend, Seema, who is an artist painted a seascape in my bathroom after Leslie helped me wall paper two of its walls. There was always something to be done and it was done teaching me a lot about maintenance.
Bad things happened there too. I was burgled twice. I heard of the death of loved ones. I almost lost my sight in one eye. And it was in this house after many years, in the depths of the night that I said goodbye in my heart to a relationship that undermined my emotional well-being.
So although, I agree to sell my house, I know that I won’t be selling my home for it is indeed true that home is really where the heart is at peace. While Grasmere is clothed with precious memories, ever so slowly, I’m finding new points of reference. I ‘ve been blessed to have somewhere comfortable to live for five years. Two years ago during a crisis, I realized that this temporary place was home. Now that chapter too seems about to end and a new book beckons.
As I reflect this Sabbath Eve, I am acutely conscious of the impermanence of life, of possessions and situations. I know that I’m passing through on a pilgrimage. Abraham, Jacob and Moses had great encounters with God on their journey. Tomorrow, as I worshi , I yearn for a similar encounter but even if it never happens, I am content because I know The Way and the Guide on whom I rely to see me safely home.

After the distractions of the last week , this week has blessed me with warm weather and good news. After the waiting and many false starts, I have a definite offer for my house. Of course, until she signs on the dotted line, she is free to change her mind but I am optimistic. I have seen the clear fingerprint of God in this and am hopeful. Strangely, now that I have reached the end of the beginning, I am surprised by my ambivalence. So many fond memories are rooted to that house, so many great ideas were birthed there. Many relationships blossomed into cherished friendships.
In that house, people of all cultures, classes and races gathered around my table or spilled over the lawn or field beyond. Children romped and were never out of place. When I think of huge American homes, I am somewhat astonished at the company and comraderie that found place within that small five roomed house.
While I enjoyed that house for ithe people Who blessed me with their presence, I would miss it more more personal reasons. I learnt to pour cement, tile walls, neither of which I’ll do again. I also painted everyone of it s walls. My friend, Seema, who is an artist painted a seascape in my bathroom after Leslie helped me wall paper two of its walls. There was always something to be done and it was done teaching me a lot about maintenance.
Bad things happened here too. I was burgled twice. I heard of the death of loved ones. I almost lost my sight in one eye. And it was in this house after many years, in the depths of the night that I said goodbye in my heart to a relationship that undermined my emotional well-being.
So although, I agree to sell my house, I know that I won’t be selling my home for it is indeed true that home is really where the heart is at peace. While Grasmere is clothed with precious memories, ever so slowly, I’m finding new points of reference. I ‘ve been blessed to have somewhere comfortable to live for five years and two years ago realized that it was home. Now that chapter seems about to end and a new book beckons.
As I reflect this Sabbath Eve, I am acutely conscious of the impermanence of life, of possessions and situations. I know that I’m passing through on a pilgrimage. Abraham, Jacob and Moses had great encounters with God on their journey. Tomorrow, as I worship , I yearn for a similar encounter but even if it never happens, I am content because I know The Way and the Guide on whom I rely to see me safely home.

Foggy landing-happy homecoming

My week away came to a heavy, jolting halt as the pilot seemed to brake sharply to slow the plane down. The air craft dropped so fast. Discomfort faded away to relief at being home when we realized that we had sailed through a blanket of fog so thick that we were almost diverted back. Safely on land in the early minutes of the young day, the fog enveloped us in a cosy world.

I was glad to be home and enjoyed the unusual experience of being missed. It was a challenging week which started when one of our flights was delayed and after a further two delays, our last flight was cancelled. It was a day so long that my feet ached despite my comfortable chunky shoes. Relieved to find a hotel, my colleagues and I faced the prospect of spending another day in the clothes we were wearing. I recalled what I had written about delayed flights and mislaid bags last week and resolved to be calm and stoical.

All our bags did arrive the next day when we deplaned at Fargo and although late, we were able to join our class whose main participants were police officers. A week so disruptive of normal routine moved me from my comfort zone; but I gained greater insight into domestic violence from many perspectives. I saw Moorhead through its food as we visited different eating places twice daily. We had little time or energy to sightsee although we did visit a Burlington coat factory. We worked solidly through the week and to keep us engaged, every class-member had a presentation on Friday. So we were all looking forward to being home. Fortunately, on Friday night, the decision was made to land and I was able to enjoy my day at home.

After sleeping in all morning, I left with David and Philip to mow the lawn of our elder brother while his arm heals. We had good fun and a great meal. Afterwards, I read a book and when I returned home, trimmed the roses and went for a two mile walk around our division admiring the carefully tended gardens. My best activity today was talking: to my three brothers, my sisters-in-law, and my neighbor. We connected in a look, a word, in laughter. So I am thankful that I’m home and tomorrow will offer special thanks for the blessing of the family.

Planting and Packing clothes

In forty-five minutes, it will be another day of rest as we wait in God’s presence and experience the icy patches of our hearts being melted by forgiveness, our minds being renewed with different thoughts and our spirits quickened with new resolve.

Tomorrow, I will need to take the Sabbath with me as I stand barefoot in impatient lines or squeeze past harried flyers trying to find their seats. How can I remain serene if my flight is delayed or luggage mislaid? Particularly when today was spent in a circuit of activities. I took my brother for his commitment, went to Charleston, then to the shops in Nitro before coming home to plant the many plants I bought from my idyllic nursery visit last week

Plants rooted, I changed into evening clothes, rushed to Dunbar to meet my brother before returning to Charleston for a party that was over. To salvage the evening we went for a Chinese meal . I have not finished my packing because I cannot decide what to take: woolens or cottons, suits or casual, skirts or trousers., red or navy.
I feel that the energies expended in making this decision should be saved for momentous situations but still I hesitate and ponder.

So this Saturday, I feel flustered and harried and I won’t be in Church to-morrow but I know God has loved me this week and has looked out for me. I know as Lord of the Sabbath, He transcends time and place. Whenever, I can find time to worship in celebration, He attends with new wine. I am filled, I am blest. I am at rest in His peace.