Where in the World...? One

Hide and seek is a popular game with our grandchildren.  Reading - or more accurately "studying" Richard Scarry books (or other books illustrated with a great deal of detail that enhance learning about our world) is a past-time loved as much by Isaac and Eli as it was by their dad.  Instead of simply reading the story, the adult reader finds tiny details in the story for the child to search for - like "where's the pickle on this page?" or "who can find someone who is spilling something?"


I thought it might be fun to play another blog game called "Where in the world is Sandy's camera?"  I will post several pictures without telling you where they were taken.  You post a comment with your guess.  If a few guesses come in but they are incorrect, I will give a hint or hints as needed.  

Anyone may guess, but I will require more detailed answers from those who live in the area where the photos are taken.  If we have fun with the game, perhaps I'll try posting the gps coordinates with the answers  so you can find the exact spot on google earth or attach a linky tool for blog readers to post their own photos for us to identify.

I will try to post a variety of photo challenges, with some from other locales and some that have already been identified in this or other blogs.   Ok, here are your first three to guess - #s 1-1, 1-2, 1-3.  Questions are allowed.  Have fun!

Seasons of Service

Elisabeth Elliott's book, "These Strange Ashes", about her first year of missionary service, has stayed with me for many years after I read it.  Elisabeth spent her first term of service living with "an unreached tribe" attempting to codify their spoken language into a written language for purposes of fostering literacy and translation of the Bible into their tongue.  After more than a year of working diligently on the project ALL her language work was irretrievably lost.


I was already familiar with the story Elliott told in her most well-known book, "Through Gates of Splendor" about the murder of her husband, Jim Elliott, and several other men, as they attempted to befriend a remote tribe of people, and her subsequent story of remaining for many years, with her children, to continue to get to know that tribe of people and introduce them to Jesus Christ.


It is not difficult to call the loss of the young husbands and fathers a sacrificial service that resulted in great blessing when one looks through the window provided by the results of her subsequent years of friendship with and service to the tribe.  But "These Strange Ashes" is Elisabeth's reflection on the meaning and purpose of the loss of her entire year of literacy work.   


I can't remember whether a storm or fire or something else destroyed her work, but I do remember that her story and her reflection left me feeling unsettled and dissatisfied.  I wanted life to be explainable if not predictable, and to be able to clearly see and name God's movement and purposes in our lives.


Over the past few years I've spent an inordinate amount of time reflecting on the people, motivations, and results of my four decades of service to God and "the bride of Christ", the church, looking for possible purpose and meaning.  I have been sifting fragile ashes from one hand to the other, examining what remains.  


I began this blog in the middle of that reflective season, and the blog title, "These Three Remain" hints both of my struggle to make meaning of the unknowable and my hope, however faint at that time, that faith, hope, and love are truly cornerstones of life that remain when all else fades away.


So Amber's invitation to reflect on and write about a season of service or influencing people and blessing or benefit that may have come to us through or as a result of that service has really challenged me as I've sifted the ashes of my service through my fingers.  


"Personality assessments" I've taken over the years have made me realize that "influencing others" has been a primary motivation most of my life - it's  a very strong thread in my personality, and it shows itself in my history of church service activities which focused far more on teaching and mentoring than on preparing meals, cleaning homes, or mowing lawns.  I did all those things and more as both a "stay-at-home" and working wife and mother, but I didn't routinely help people outside my family in those ways. 


I grew up in small church, so I was put to work at a young age:  helping with a weekly children's program, and annual summer vacation bible school, teaching a 3rd grade Sunday School class, singing in the choir, leading youth group activities, counseling at summer church camps, teaching sunday school to a wonderful group of middle schoolers while in college, and participating in community evangelistic campaigns.


Later, immersed in a much larger home church, I found myself discipling women on an informal individual and group basis as I continued in the church-structured activities of teaching sunday school (7th grade girls, then later 4 year old children ), teaching the Bible in vacation bible school each summer and writing and leading interdenominational women's bible studies in the community.  


I took an active role in a local women's retreat ministry for about a decade, and though I found myself locked out of the teaching structure of the church (another story for another time) I gave myself to serving in the children's wednesday night program,  singing in the choir, chaperoning field and camping trips, counseling at youth camp, and praying on a very regular basis for my church's leaders, people, and programs.


When I was locked out of the teaching leadership structure after 20 years of teaching, I turned to intercessory prayer (praying for and on behalf of others) as an alternate avenue of "using my life to influence others for God and Truth".  


At first I prayed mostly for my church, on my knees in the tiny prayer room or face down in the sanctuary on weekdays, and tucked away in a less traveled hallway on Sunday mornings.  After awhile, I began meeting regularly with others for the purpose of prayer; sometimes to support interdenominational organizations and efforts in the community, other times to encourage individuals in their prayer life.  


I took to "prayer- walking" not only on my mega church and christian school campus but also in neighborhoods and on busy city streets in my community, often bringing partners along to walk and pray with me for God's blessing for the people, neighborhoods, churches and cities through which we walked.  


For several years when I did not have to work outside the home, I prayed with someone, morning and afternoon, five days a week.  I heartily believed God would intervene in the affairs of men and influence lives as a result of our prayers.


Trying to complete the many "faith assignments" I felt God had for me was usually intuitively and intellectually fulfilling but it was also very challenging emotionally.  At times I risked damage to my reputation or rejection and loss of treasured relationships in order to pursue "the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord" (Phil 3:8).   


For as long as I can remember I have had a major pride problem.  During the years of intense prayer and mentoring activities, I battled pride on a daily basis, asking God to root it out in me, expose it and help me to confess it to others and turn from it.   


So it may be no coincidence that looking back these past few years at the "results" of my decades of service  has seemed more an act of "sifting through ashes" than rejoicing over visible results.   For quite a few months I felt like my decades of service to "the church" had been a colossal mis-use of my time and resources.   


During this season of my life of withdrawal from "church" activities, I have focused on giving simple life-sustaining gifts to my family: preparing many nourishing meals, caring for children, painting and planting, and offering stressed and weary parents moments of respite and a  welcoming home where each person is accepted, respected and loved.  


I've returned with new emphasis to this service that is so very physical and largely restricted to my family mostly because we simply needed it to survive and overcome the challenges we faced, and also because it provided a "quiet" backdrop of work for me to address the unanswered questions, heartache and angst about God and the church which occupied such a large portion of my heart and mind.   


As I have taken up this towel, I've experienced an unexpected new joy and satisfaction in planning and preparing appealing,  wholesome meals as well as surprise that a meal that takes 5 hours or more to prepare will often be dished out and consumed by 8-12  people in less than 15 minutes.  I've experienced a body weariness that clamors for rest long before the day is done, and fed my appetite for learning as I've devoured books and lectures about nutrition, fitness, the brain, and personality development.


In order to serve my family in this way, I've exchanged personal activities and goals I'd looked forward to accomplishing during this "empty nest" season for more cooking and cleaning and childcare.


But I've also tasted recurring delight as I experience anew the wondrous world with and through my grandchildren; reading marvelous books, cooking, baking, working and laughing together; exploring the great outdoors and its many inhabitants in yard, park, and beach; getting messy with mud and paint and glue, playing every ball game imaginable, struggling to communicate with my "special needs" granddaughter, and answering 387 questions a day.


I realize that I've been breaking the commonly taught rules for spiritual health by refusing involvement in the "messy Christianity" within the organized church during these recent years. 


I realize with a clarity I lacked in my younger years just how far I am from loving others as God loves.   


But after 35 years of intensive service to the organized church, investing my energy, gifts and love in that community (and the world through my intercessory prayer and our financial giving),  I am content with this towel and this bowl for now. 


I do not shy from truthful answers or cringe in guilt when I face the questions and responses from extended family and friends about my lack of involement in the organized church.  


For this season, my "family church" has provided more than enough opportunity to practice forgiveness and model imperfection, more than enough pain to stretch my heart, more than enough heartache to keep me on my knees crying out for mercy and grace, and more than enough joy and blessing to keep me lifting my voice in praise to the God who is Love.

A Lifetime of Giving Thanks

                                                        
  





One of the joys (and there are many) of my life in this season as a mother-in-law, has been watching each of my daughters-in-love cultivate the discipline of intentional gratitude in their lives and the lives of their children.  I see it in lists on their walls and blogs, in creative yet simple thank you notes with the children, and hear it from their lips.  It gives me joy because thanksgiving has made such a huge difference in my life. 


Looking back over these past almost 35 years of living, loving, and learning with my husband and family, I think intentional thanksgiving would make my top 3 list of "it-has-changed-my-life-time-and-time-again" disciplines.  Deliberately expressing gratitutde for the big and small gifts and challenges in my life has gotten me out of a funk, out of a negative, complaining or self-centered attitude more times than I can rememember.  Thanksgiving has broken through at times when all other mental gymnastics proved powerless.  Thanksgiving: It does a body good.


I realized when Amber began posting her deliberate thanksgiving on her blog a few weeks ago, that it was probably time for me to move back into the discipline of frequent, deliberate thanksgiving instead of waiting for it to overtake me with joy.  So I am beginning today to keep my word  to join the Multitude Monday community.   


I am so grateful:
1.  for life...multitudes of people do not make it to 55.  I am thankful for abundant health.

2.  for my husband...he has continued to love me through all the seasons of our 35 years of marriage


3.  for my two grown sons...they are wonderful men and husbands and fathers...and it is  such fun to getting to know them in this season as "friend" in addition to "son"

4.  for my two beautiful, intelligent, and loving daughters-in-law....it is such a delight getting to know them, and they are both teaching me things and expanding my view of the world through their unique views, gifts, and skills

5.  for my four grandchildren....for the health they (and we) have, for the joy and learning they bring to our lives

I am so grateful:
6.  to have been born in this great country, with all its freedoms and promise and people
7.  to have been born to incredibly loving and nurturing parents
8.  that my parents moved to Florida in my childhood, 
9.  and for all the opportunity of a new life that came our way with their move
10. for the church family that welcomed and nurtured me and my family all the rest of my childhood and youth, for the strong foundation of belief and trust that was laid


I give thanks:
11.  for the safety I had growing up...I never feared that my parents would hurt me or neglect to feed me


12.  for living in a place of abundant sunshine 
13.  and green growing things


14.  and tropical plants wearing such glorious foliage of outrageous colors 


15.  that I live so close to the beach I can be there in 20 minutes by bike

I am grateful:
16.  for my bicycles
17.  for the Pinellas trail
18.  for bike lanes on the beach
19.  for padded biking shorts for those long rides
20.  for moisture-wicking exercise wear that I come close to wearing 16 hours a day during this menopausal season of life


I am thankful:
21.  for the legacy of a gentle heart and contented spirit from my father...somehow he managed to sidestep the alcoholism that had cornered his father and replace it with gentle patience


22.  my mother, also, modeled contentment, gentleness and patience with us 


22.  for the gift of opening our eyes to appreciate beauty from my parents by continually taking us to parks, walking trails with us, pointing out things of wonder in nature


23.  that I live now within a half mile from a wonderful park


24.  for the amazing abundance and variety of birds in my area...one of these days I will do a post of just bird pictures

25.  for the tadpoles that grew to froghood in my front porch fountain this past month

I am so grateful:
26.  that I can read...my life has been immeasurably enriched
27.  that I have had the chance to read so many amazing books
28.  that biographies and memoirs have opened my eyes to see the world from others' eyes
29.  for computers and 
30.  four-in-one printers and
31.  digital cameras and
32.  amazing software and
33.  cell phones (even though my husband insists he can never reach me when he needs me)
34.  the world-wide web with all the innovation and staying in touch and sharing of knowledge it has spawned
35.  for the blogosphere...so much to learn, so many people to enjoy

Stones of Remembering

A week ago when Amber invited us to join her on "Journey of Faith Friday"s, to set out memorial stones from the rivers of our lives for others to see and, hopefully, be encouraged and conclude that "God is great, God is good, God is faithful", I began sifting through my memories to see if I came across anything in my life that still, in my estimation, qualified as a "memorial stone to God's faithfulness and power" and which I was willing to, with much effort, lug out of the river and put out on the bank for anyone who happened by to see, walk around, kick, or stub their toe on.  


I'd started piling up memorial stones in earnest in my twenties.  I married at 20, immersed myself in theological, historical, and christian education studies at Asbury College and in practice of those studies within the Wilmore Free Methodist Church for two years.  I gave birth to our first son when I was 23, and our second when I was 25.  I thought a lot about setting up memorial stones in my life, which my sons would see or bump against and ask about, and which might remind me of God's faithfulness if ever I lost my way in the dark.  I started gratitude lists in my journals while in college, and they spilled over to the walls of our small home when Kyle and Sam were small.  For decades I kept recording my struggles with life as well as my pleas for help and the answers and guidance and help I felt God offered.  

Perhaps after I have submitted to Amber's proposed discipline of writing testimonies of God's power, love and faithfulness for a few months, the stones from my river will come up easily, anxious to display their witness.  But in this season of my life, they are not easily removed from their bed of gravel and rock, so it is probably good for me that Amber is assigning topics, this first being what we see as the beginning of our friendship with God.   


Years ago I would have begun my "salvation story" at the point when I was eight years old, sitting in a Salvation Army "vacation bible school" story time one summer, paying close attention to a woman describing the construction that God was offering to do in my heart.  If I remember correctly she held up a large heart-shaped black cut-out when she described the hearts of children who lied, or disobeyed their parents, or behaved meanly towards others.  She showed us a large red heart cut-out to symbolize God's love for us which had been demonstrated in Jesus' physical death on the cross; and she held up a white heart as a picture of the heart of a person who invited Jesus to live within him and change him.  The person who consented to that act and that process would have a changed heart, a clean heart, a white heart.


I wanted a white heart, a clean heart, a good heart.  I knew I wasn't good through and through.  I knew I had done some of those bad things she talked about, and I wanted a clean heart, a white heart.  I wanted a good heart.  


Thinking of my story now, within the puzzling context of Paul's words to the Athenians that God "determined the times set for them  and the exact places where they should live.  God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us"  (Acts 17), I would probably begin my story of God's provision sooner.


My parents had love and energy to share with a wider family of foster children when my sister and I were young.  As foster parents, they opened their home and arms and hearts to hurting children in the community whose families were fractured or breaking, and offered each child a safe place and space of his or her own, nourishing meals and honest, consistent discipline.  


I learned early on that some parents did not keep their children.  Our parents likely gave us simple answers meant to protect us from harsh realities as to why these children came to live with us.  But what my 5-6 year old brain concluded was that some parents gave their children away to others.  And if I wasn't good enough, might my parents give me away?  That anguished question tumbled over my lips one day after my mother caught me in a lie.  She assured me that she and my father would NEVER give me away.  But still, I wondered at times. 


It would be many years before I would realize and understand a greater factor in my compelling need to do right and be right, to be good.  But when I was 8, listening to that VBS story of God's invitation to change dirty hearts to clean, my mind did not know what my deep heart knew.  I knew only that I wanted a clean heart - I wanted to be GOOD.     


So I invited Jesus to "come into my heart" and live with me.  I believed he did.  And for me it truly was the beginning of many choices that set me on a path of cultivating a vibrant inner relationship with "I AM"  and making an earnest outward effort to follow God.  It was the beginning of learning to look for God's handiwork, provision and power in my life, the beginning of gathering stones of remembering.

Photo #1 of the large boulders and walking stick and photo #2 of the rocks on the shore were both taken on the Homer Spit, Homer, Alaska.


Photo #3 was taken by Michelle at Indian Rocks Beach, Florida (the Gulf Coast) one evening this summer, while the oil was still gushing, capping attempts had failed, and we were grabbing memories of "our beach" before it was gone.

I LOVE our house!

My daughter-in-law, Michelle, was sharing some humorous videos posted on the "Spirit fm 90.5" web site a few nights ago and one that stayed with me was a short video of a 4-5 year old curly blonde haired girl standing on her bathroom counter, so she could watch herself enthusiastically declare all the things she loved about her life.  I assumed she had watched a parent doing daily affirmations in front of the mirror since "Jessica's daily affirmations" was the title of the youtube clip, but it could very well have been her compliance with a parental prescription meant to replace grumbling with gratitude.

Where David and I live now is less than a 5 minute walk from where our old house stood.  Years ago, I had been looking for a house close by where we could live while our old home went through extensive (as in the architect and contractor telling us "you need to tear it down") remodeling.  I happened upon this one at the end of a cul-de-sac one afternoon when I walked the dog.  I asked to see it and within a few days David and I had made an offer to the owners, and within a couple years we had abandoned all serious thought about moving back to our former property.   We were simply too content with this house.

There were several other factors in our decision, but the ones I've thought about so often are how much I LOVE is the way it nestles among vine-covered oak trees and palmettos, and the number and placement of windows in the home.  Every single room in the house has a view to the outside, and in most places the view is largely comprised of plants and trees.

Watching from our bed as the sunlight  pushes back the early morning darkness in our back yard is pure joy.

I do most of my "paper work" at the dining room table, because I only have to lift my eyes for a moment of rest and a reminder that the current project, though keeping me inside, is not keeping me from beauty.

For someone who worked in a windowless office for many years, being able to drink in my oak glade and palmetto "jungle" is a marvelous gift.

When I am cleaning the floors or setting the table or reading to my grandchildren I have only to move my head to let the beauty feed me.

Whenever I clean or share our guest room with another, I give thanks that we are able to share such beauty with those who stay with us.  Because beauty is meant for sharing.

These photos were all taken at our home in Largo, Florida.

Kneeling

I read "The Search for God at Harvard" by Ari L. Goldman at least 10 years ago.  Goldman, a "third generation American-born Orthodox Jew, then religion correspondent for The New York Times who wrote this engaging spiritual memoir of his year at Harvard Divinity School in 1985, grabbed me when he wrote:

"The most elusive experience for me in my early days at the Div School was, to my great surprise, the Christian experience.  Everybody, it seemed, was trying so hard not to offend the wide diversity of people that were gathered there that Christian spirituality did not emerge.


If, for example, there was a mention in class of the divinity of Jesus, the lecturer would offer an apology to the non-Christians in the room.  If there was a Christian prayer offered at a convocation, you could be sure that some Buddhist meditation would follow for balance.  Religious truth did not seem to exist at the Div School, only religious relativism....


The Noon Worship, organized and led by students, would include some tepid hymns, an inoffensive reading from Scriture and a short sermon usually on the liberal political topic of the day.  The sermons that I grew up with in syagogue exhorted the gathered faithful to change themselves; here in the Div School chapel the plea for change was directed outside, well beyond the church walls....


I often passed the chapel when I was on my way to and from classes.   Occasionally, I would see someone sitting there meditating, but in my entire year at Harvard, I never saw anyone on his or her knees.


To my mind, kneeling is the ultimate expression of Christian supplication.  It is something so Christian that, as a boy, I was taught never to fall down on both knees, even while playing in the park or retrieving some toy from under the sofa.  'Always keep one knee up,' my counselor said at Camp Kol-Re-Na, an Orthodox all-boys summer sleep-away camp in the Catskills, 'Jews don't kneel.'"

Goldman's words astounded me.  At the point in my life when I encountered his memoir, I could not imagine my life lived without frequent kneeling before God.  I prayed a lot, about 2-4 hours a day.  I  knelt in my private worship to express submission of my life to God, I knelt when I pleaded with God to intervene in my life or that of another, and sometimes I knelt in adoration or in simple waiting, quietly "present" with God.  I knelt in corporate or solitary prayer for others in churches of various denominations, all over my local area, and in other areas of the country when I traveled.  

Although my home church during most of my adult life was generally a sitting or standing church - not a kneeling church,  people sitting in the pews were almost always invited to kneel at the altar at the front of the sanctuary at the end of a worship service to demonstrate their desire to trust God, and my last few years there we were regularly invited to kneel at the altar for our corporate prayer time.  Kneeling didn't have a prominent place in our corporate worship,  but it did have a place.

I often knelt in corporate worship whether anyone  around me knelt or not, and whether or not the worship leader invited us to kneel.  I knelt to bow my heart and tune my ear to the still small voice.  I knelt to be a living symbol to onlookers of God's invitation to man to "come, let us reason together".

So it astounded me to read that "Jews don't kneel."  If I'd ever thought about it, I would have assumed they did...for the same reasons I did....to demonstrate personal acknowledgement of God's might and authority.

Apparently so many years of frequent kneeling during prayer had embedded itself so thoroughly in my conversation and relationship with God that kneeling was almost the only traditional expression of Christian worship that remained during my long long season of questioning and doubt.   I still tried to live my life in ways that modeled integrity, compassion, and service to others and I still made time for quiet reading and thinking, but my days no longer began and ended with praise and thanksgiving.

After I returned home from Kolkata, I tried to read my Bible but found it had become an ordinary book, subject to my many questions, doubt and skepticism which had begun brewing before my trip to India.    The words I read no longer called or sang to me with  vibrant love and life.  Church worship services also, largely lost their ability to touch me with encouragement or teaching or conviction.  I stopped dancing, stopped singing and stopped listening to contemporary Christian music to avoid the critical, cynical thoughts that filled my mind.

The journaling that had been such a strong part of my daily "walk with God" stopped being a daily record of my thriving inner life and conversation with God and instead became reading journals into which I copied meaningful sections of books I read.  After several years of my questioning even that fell by the wayside.  The ability to form coherent sentences and paragraphs had abandoned me, and each time of trying to write my thoughts ended in complete frustration.  I had become a spiritual deaf-mute.

I still tried to choose integrity, compassion, and service to others day by day, and I still followed the wisdom of a weekly day of rest.  Thanksgiving broke through on occasion in those first years of my doubt, but generally I was so overcome by the suffering in the world and so skeptical of the beliefs that had shaped me most of my life, that for a season, forgiveness, gratitude and thanksgiving - once key plantings in a thriving, abundantly nourishing garden in my life - became a neglected, patch of dormant plants.

But amazingly, in the midst of all the anger and agnosticism and despair, I still knelt.

At times, when I could not utter a single sentence of prayer, I knelt.  Some early mornings I rolled out of my bed where I liked to read and I knelt on the hard tile floor.  No words beyond "God.......you know" would escape my lips.  Sometimes I slipped out of my rocker or chair onto my knees, letting my posture say what my tongue found so difficult to utter:  "I am here, God.  Come, reason with me."

The top photo of the surf pounding against the rock was taken on the island of Oahu, Hawaii, photo #2 is a portion of a holocaust memorial at a Jewish synagogue in Clearwater, Florida, photo #3 is Walsingham Park, and the rainbow photo was taken on our cul-de-sac in Largo, FL - it actually was a full double rainbow!  My thanks to Amy for diverting her run in the park to run home and tell us, gasping!, that we MUST go out and look.

Note to Self 2: Cups in the Car

One of the things I love about my newest daughter-in-law is how much she enjoys laughter.  Since Amber reminded me afresh about the immense value of laughter in her recent blog post, I thought I'd share a quick EEUUGH! from yesterday.

The day before David and I had shared lunch at Sonny's, our favorite BBQ establishment and carried away large "to-go" cups of drink for later.  I drank one Sunday afternoon, then worked on the second cup yesterday, refilling the big foam cup with my own iced tea as I worked at my dining room "desk".  I dashed out late in the afternoon, hoping to make a stop at Home Depot for soil and shovels quickly enough to afford me an early arrival time and vacant swim lane when I got to the pool.

I put the car in park, turned and pulled the keys, and grabbed the to-go cup in the holder for a swig.  Suck on the straw, feel lemon seed-sized object in mouth followed immediately by YOWWW....that's a STING!
Turn and spit out the open door and see a light gray SPIDER shooting out and scrambling for cover - NOT a lemon seed.

Note to self:  Do NOT, under any circumstances, drink from cup left in car overnight, without visually checking the contents first.

As I lay in bed this morning, slowly becoming aware that "yes, it really is 5:25, that was the alarm going off, and I do have begin my day", one body-awareness thought dominated all the "sore muscles? joints?" assessments:  Dang, my tongue hurts!