Lapse

I'm obviously not very good at this blogging stuff, as evidenced by the huge lapse of time between posts. I'll admit I'm much more comfortable with a pen in my hand and a journal in my lap. My favorite and most creativity-inspiring spot is sitting upon my bed at the cabin, cup of coffee on the bed side table, kitty on my feet, music playing, and sunlight dappling through the lacy curtains. That seems to be my place to meet with the muse. On most days......I'll admit - I got nothing. And I'll further admit, it puts a little pressure on me to think I've started yet another venture that lacks follow-through. The story of my life. And it's not like - as is true of most of us - I don't have things to say. I do. It's just that taking the time to translate thoughts to fingers to keyboard is an exercise I get lazy about. Physical exercise comes easy ... I love my trips to the gym and thrive on the sweaty euphoria that follows a good workout. If only I could train myself to be as agile mentally. The good feeling that follows equates to the endorphins summoned by physical exertion. It comes from the realization that you have been able to translate innermost thoughts into words that express something that might resonate with a fellow sojourner. And so I am making the following vow to self: I will exercise the craft of transposing thoughts into written words, if for no other reason that to sort them out for my own well-being. If someone else might happen by and benefit, I would consider that a divine appointment affirming my efforts.

Servants of Light

It  is one of those rare, lazy days when I have nothing that presses with the tyranny of the urgent. It is a cherished gift that allows breathing space - a chance to ponder and sift recent events and allow myself the luxury of staying in my pj's, being a slug. The past week included the funeral of a gentleman five years my junior, a seminar on the ponderous subject of child sex-trafficking in Atlanta and a meeting on the resolution of a ministry to the homeless which is faltering. Heavy, weighty, real-life issues that press down on the psyche like an anvil. It's good to be able to take a step back, gather in a lung-full of air and offer it all to the One whose burden is light. When I think it is all too much to bear, I am reminded of what He bore for all who inhabit this befuddled, ragtag planet. I know it is just as important to embrace the pain and suffering as the joy. Henri Nouwen said, "Faith is the deep trust that God's love is stronger than all the anonymous powers of the world and can transform us from victims of darkness into servants of light." If I can just strive to keep the beat to that unforced rhythm of grace that is uniquely mine, that is authentic, then I am on my way to becoming that servant of light. If I can be quiet and still long enough to hear that still, small voice that speaks straight from the heart of God to my being, then I am making a modicum of progress. The question, as always, is am I listening? Am I trusting? And, above all, am I being obedient? 

Unforced Rhythms

I have always loved the water. As a child I spent hour upon hour plumbing the depths of the backyard pool or the lake...twirling, spinning, an astronaut untethered - a free-form dance with sparkling overtones. I didn't realize at the time, but in retrospect, God has granted me the grace to recognize the pure, unfettered joy of that freedom.... of having my being at one with what Peterson terms the "unforced rhythms of grace." I didn't know I was being wooed by the Creator of light and water and air and every cell that motivated muscle to move. I only knew sunlight that penetrated the water and captured a thousand diamonds on the water's surface, inviting me to a sense of security and loveliness. All was right with the world - the way it should be. As if floating on the wind or drifting on a cloud, or dancing with God. I felt a palpable Love in that underwater blue haven, as secure as the womb. And, from the safety of that place, the whole world lay before me, sparkling and bright and inviting.

Prophecy

Sometimes a story writes itself. It percolates for decades, spinning out its intricate details while you go about your life oblivious to what is playing out in the details of the quotidian daily grind. But I have learned that God is in those details, down to the smallest dotted i and crossed t. He is the Master Creator, the Divine Artist who conducts behind the scenes; and, even though you seldom recognize His Presence, He is there.....oh is He ever there. It was on one of those rare occasions when I did hear Him speaking to me that I recognized the Truth of my story, and how part of that story was in the writing of it. Events in my life began to pound my consciousness and everything started to fit together like some giant cosmic puzzle. Not that I had all the answers, or the whole thing figured out, but that I started to see the pattern and the sense in it all.

It started back when I was in High School.....

“The little writer,” the weak words wafting from the hospital bed were just above audible. I saw a frail arm lift and a hand extend toward me from the rumpled sheets. The muffled voice and barely recognizable form was that of my great aunt, Auntee we called her affectionately. Although I never felt particularly affectionate toward her. She was always a little scary to me - an imposing authoritarian and I felt a propulsion to be particularly lady-like on the visits to her large Victorian home where we paid formal visits to the Parlor. I got the sense my father, her nephew felt the same way. The visits were obligatory and stiff, paying homage to the wealthy family matriarch. I was her namesake for whatever that was worth. I always had a sneaking suspicion my being named for Auntee was a familial suck-up and not out of any true adoration. She was a spinster (an old maid like the card game) and had dedicated her life to education, having served as teacher and then principal of a landmark elementary school. As an educator, she recognized the value and weightiness of words.

Now my parents had taken me to Greensboro, NC, to pay a last visit to this dying woman who in no way resembled the Auntee of my childhood. And, even in her debilitated state she forecast my fate....”the little writer.” I have never forgotten those words.

“Go ahead,” my father urged me with a gentle push in the direction of the bed. “Talk to Auntee about your writing.”

So, here, in a place smelling like death and decay, I heard from the lips of a dying woman, a prophetic announcement over me that was to stay with me throughout my life. It was among many signs throughout my years that would pronounce me a writer. I don’t know why I ignored the auguries as long as I did. Perhaps it was laziness or a fear of failure, the dread of having nothing to say, or worse, that no one would care about what I had to say. These were the things that kept me from pursuing what I have always known I was born to do. And yet I didn’t. Oh, I have always been a prolific journalizer, a great writer of letters, a dabbler. But I have never put it all out there for the world to see. I guess I thought, “Who would care?” Well, of late, it has come to my attention, through repeated affirmations, that God cares.