Harvest Falls Asleep

Ready for Train Ride Day

We have now had two happy sleepovers with our youngest grandbaby, Harvest.  He's not a baby though, and he'd tell you so.  He'd hold up three fingers (with the ring finger held down by the thumb) and inform you that very soon he'll be four, in fact.

But up until now he's been young enough to make times away from Momma and Papa, especially overnight, a little too sad.  I am thoroughly thrilled that those days are behind us.

Putting Harvest to bed is a nuanced art form, as his Momma and Papa would tell you.  He takes a passive resistance stance against falling asleep, not miserable, but not easily giving in either.  And because I'm the Gramma and because we want sleepovers at Gramma's house to be relatively freak-out free, I read a scandalous amount of bedtime books to my little guy.

My strategy is deeply subversive.  Choose books with calming themes.  Gradually turn out more and more lights around us.  Make my voice slower and more droning with each turn of the page.  It works.  Though deeply committed to staying awake, eventually even this little hard-core resister begins to droop, eyes glazing, head lolling. 

There's always a pillow nearby of course, and every once in a while I might suggest, "Harvest buddy, it might feel good just to put your head down on this pillow here."  "No thank you Gramma", he politely refuses.  I marvel at his tenacity to remain in an upright position, and continue reading.

And then, at the end of one last book, I just stopped.  Didn't offer the next one.  We just sat quietly for a brief moment.  And then Harvest said, "Gramma, I think I'll just put my head down on this pillow here."  Which he did.  And he was gone.

Why is it that by the time no one makes us go to bed early, it's all we want to do?    Seems totally crazy to me, watching my little guy refuse this good gift of sleep until he literally can't hold off any more.

And I wonder if God doesn't feel exactly the same way about me sometimes.  "Ruth Anne, it might feel good to just put you head down on this pillow called Sabbath I designed for you here."  "No thank you," I politely refuse and remain in the upright position of going about as a human doing instead of a human being.

At least, I used to.

One of the observations that came out of my annual journal-read-through at the cottage this year was how fully I have now embraced the practice of rhythms.  Daily, weekly, seasonally and annually, my practices of coming away for awhile, of stopping the work in order to play, or rest or listen, have become expected, entrenched, etched into my living in life-saving ways.

Not perfectly, but oh so much more easily and willingly.  I was once a passive resister like Harvest.  But funny how with age, workaholism can be a self-correcting dysfunction.  By now I get too tired, and have suffered enough of the consequences to work like a maniac any more.

And it's just feels so good to lay my head down.

"Because there were so many people come and going 

hat they didn't even have time to eat, 

Jesus said to his disciples, 

'Come away with me by yourselves for a while and get some rest.'" 

Mark 6:31

A Narrated Life

Abby, who just turned eight, has, for some time already, narrated her play. 

It's whimsical and sweet and amusing to listen to the 'story' she creates for herself, and for anyone willing to go along, as she presses into no end of a variety of imagined worlds with increasingly complicated and sometimes daring plots.   There's a fair degree of improv employed, as she adapts the play-story to whomever and whatever also happens to be involved.

This weekend we had all three grandkids for a sleepover, so for most of the day she had both her little brother Zachary and her slightly younger cousin Harvest written into the scene.  Mostly, they played along, but sometimes they had their own ideas.  No worries.  Abby just rewrote the narrative.

"Let's go!", she cried excitedly, leaping up from the garden swing.  The other two ponies followed her eagerly.  Only Harvest acts on cue.  Zachary has other ideas, which he voices assertively.  Something about not being a pony any more, but magically turning into a ninja. He demonstrates this by taking a ninja-like stance in front of the newly stacked wood in our backyard.  Nonplussed, Abby adapts. The other pony followed her eagerly while the ninja went to look after the monsters in the woodpile.

If you listen long enough, you hear so many details you'd miss without the narration.  Relational cues.  Emotional nuances.  Insights into motives and goals, and a connection to the broader scope of where this story might be going.

Reminds me of something else, another narration, facilitated through the practice of journaling.

I think I've been journaling in one form or another since I was 11 years old.  Since that time, writing down on paper my observations of the day has evolved from a five line, preadolescent diary entry about cute boys at school, to a rich experience of my beautiful-beyond-description Divine Lover in heaven.  It is hard for me to distinguish journaling from prayer.

Recently I've been realizing just how much God is in my journaling.  Not that I am writing directly to Him all the time, although I do indeed write out prayers often enough.  But it’s more of a sense of His presence with me on the pages as I sort myself out.  It’s like He’s right in here with me; a mystic union of words and feelings and ideas that He is eager to be part of with me.  This is more of a living thing for me.  An exchange of sorts.  Something that give me access to the deeper places of my being, with God, right here on the pages, with me.

In a very tangible way, God and I narrate my life together.

I know journaling isn't for everyone, but for me, I feel that this 'narration' helps me catch so many details I'd miss otherwise.  Relational cues.  Emotional nuances.  Insights into motives and goals, and a connection to the broader scope of where the story of my life might be going.

And like Abby, I want to be ready for the improv.  Not everything goes the way I imagine it will.  Actually, most of it doesn't.  So I adapt with God, and the words on the page keep me grounded and focused, open to the new adventures of a story unfolding.



 

Strange Combo

Fifty-seven, I am finding, is delightful age to be.  Gives me three years to anticipate 60 and the happy possibilities that await me as I approach a decade of opportunities I would never have imagined I'd be imagining.

It's also an age where I am experiencing a strange and satisfying collision of change and consistency. 

My personality defaults to consistency.  As a perfectionist Type A, everything in me craves order and routine.  It's how I get my best work done.  It's the pathway to being most centered in my spirit, most satisfied, most convinced that all is right with the world.  Small rituals of every day, every season, the repetition of it, marks my life, brings me back to true north, marks my journey.

Life, however, isn't consistent.  Not at all.  It's random, surprising, doesn't mind interrupting, loves knocking ducks into disorganized, untamed messes.  Change is always happening, it seems, whether I like it or not.

Used to be, I did not like it, not one little bit.  And I won't pretend I LOVE it these days, because I'm not there yet.

But lately I've noticed that change doesn't phase me like it used to.  When change comes unexpectedly I'm more ready to embrace it, look for the new opportunities, celebrate the chance to clear out old 'stuff'.  And, even though I rarely go seeking it just for its own sake, I find that sometimes, these days, I am more and more the one making the suggestion for how something could be different, particularly when it serves the bigger purposes of what I believe my life is about. 

I am finding a way, these days of my 57th year, to set up the rhythms that allow me to change.  That I don't have to abandon my consistency in order to embrace change, but rather let the regular and repeated beloved practices embolden me for new things ahead.

No growth without change.  And I want to grow so....


And random surprises and interruptions make for better stories anyways.

Sunrise Gratitudes

I think I may be hopelessly addicted to sunrise.  I can never get enough.

Monday morning of the long holiday weekend and I am out on my back patio before 6 a.m.  Slept well, glad for the absence of an alarm to wake me.  But once I open my eyes and see the first light diffusing through the trees outside my window, I can't stay in bed.

It's the quiet I crave.  And while the city can never compete with the utter silence of the Bay at dawn, even here, no radios, no baseball games, no power tools....not yet.  Some far off crows, maybe, and a squirrel scolding, and the gentle running of water in my little fountain here on the patio.  That's all.  To be honest, I'm not sure I would keep the little sanity I have left if it weren't for these first morning indulgences of silence.  It's what makes room for all the thinking and composing and conversing and problem solving that will happen for the rest of any ordinary day.  It clears the way for what's to come; resets my mind on who I am and how I choose to live my life.

And the quiet gives me the chance to receive the Gift.  Each new dawning brings with it an offering of mercy that I need as surely as I need oxygen.  Every sunrise reaches out with the astounding Gift of brand new opportunities and exciting potential and strong grace to start all over again.  Every morning is the bringer of New Mercies and Steadfast Love from the One who made the sun that's cresting over the horizon, yet again; the One who offers this day to me, yet again.

A Silent Summer

Got a new phone for my birthday in June.   It was necessary, and I am grateful, but I am not a "gadget" girl by any stretch of the imagination, and switching to a new set of functions and buttons to push is not my idea of a fun time.  

Also, and this is not all bad,  the Internet connection at the cottage this year has been  worse than usual.  Put together, this has made for a particularly silent blogging summer; a time when I normally find more opportunities to reflect on what is going on inside my soul. 

I am well past the halfway point of my annual retreat to the cottage.  If summer is defined by the weather then this one, so far, defies definition.   Tons of rain for the blueberries,  good travels over the water,  and cooler nights for sleeping, but not hot enough for long enough to convince my psyche that it's still not spring. 

We are on the tail end of our time with family.  Two of three grandchildren have stayed following a "full house" weekend.  It's a bit tight with all nine of us here.  Ours is not one of those sprawling family summer homes.  Think "quaint, think " rustic".   

But no amount of squishy could take away the awe of having us all together. For my family, this is not something we ever dare take for granted.

Only two more days of painting birdhouses and catching bugs to nurture and canoe picnics and early morning snuggles under warm blankets until the sun comes around to take away the chill.  Then Grandad will drive them home and I will have one more 24 hours of complete solitude to help prepare me for the reorientation to home and my regular, very abundant life. 

I am looking forward to exploring more some of the exciting ideas I was dreaming of at the beginning of this time away; ideas and dreams that could take me out past myself and stretch me and help me actualize some long held goals.   I'm looking forward to finishing up some of the fascinating reading I bought with me.  I will soak up as much free vitamin D as I am offered.  And I will be quiet before my Creator in this place of His creation in all the breathtaking ways that are mine while I'm here. 

Sent from Samsung Mobile

A Beautiful Undoing

My Dad gave me a invaluable gift, just before he died.

Those were gentle, difficult days.  Long hours in his room, quietly, just me and him after Mom had gone to bed.  Him mostly sleeping or resting or getting ready or all of the above; whatever it is the dying do in the days before.

But he wasn't talking.

Except in this one lucid moment.  He stirred and opened his eyes.  I came to stand where he could see me, and he lifted his head and opened his mouth slightly and held up his hand for me to take it.  His grip was surprisingly strong.

"Thank you," he strained, "For all your care for me.  And for your Mom.  Everything."  He stopped to gather strength again, but kept his eyes locked on mine, "God bless you.... faithful daughter..... faithful."  It was all he could muster and he closed his eyes again.  But we still held hands. And then he opened his eyes again, and he smiled at me.

He never spoke to me again.  Two days later with my hand on his chest, I felt his last breath.  He was Home.

And that was his gift.  Calling me his 'faithful daughter'.  Leaving me with words of blessing.

We'd been through a lot together, not the least of which had been the past eleven years since a stroke left him left hemiplegic and suddenly dependent on others for his every need.  But before that, long before that, in the growing up years.  There weren't many words of blessing then.

Not back when the stresses of his work life collided with his natural human faults to bring about expressions of anger and an overkill on control that he later confided he wished he could undo, unsay.  Words were harsh often enough.  Critical.  Wondering, for example, what happened to the other three percent when I brought home a 97 is grade nine science.

The wonder of those eleven stroke-ridden years, though, was in the beauty of the undoing of all of that, manifest in the lavish praise that poured out from his heart now that his brain was bruised enough to bring down the walls of tradition or conditioning or dysfunction or whatever it was that kept him from expressing his love before.

And while it was indeed a gift that Dad's last words to me were of blessing and gratitude, they were, in fact, just a summary of all the volumes that I had been able to collect in the last decade we had together.  

I love how redemptively my Dad Story ends.  Makes me mindful of my own words, or lack thereof.  Dad's gift inspires me, motivates me, energizes me.

Thank you Dad.

The Finish Line

There's a scent of disbelief hanging in my office today.  Is it really true that I've come to the end of yet another season of ministry at Highview?  Did I really get here?

I still have the delight of our Sunday morning service (June 15) to look forward to.  And my last Sunday for this season is no less spectacular than bringing a report to the congregation of our latest trip to Hot Springs (Thailand, last March/April).

Even so, my last day in the office holds that familiar sense of crossing a finish line.

There have been many before this.  It's how I've marked the rhythms of my ministry life for the past 25 years or more, the last 8 of them as senior pastor.  And being someone who finds great significance in marking moments, I have a tradition of setting aside some time on this 'last day' for celebration of the season just past.  (Meditative reflection of these past months I'll save for when I'm at the cottage, which starts this coming Monday.)

Lots to celebrate.  This season started with it's own unique set of uncertainties.  We were two staff down; one on mat leave (expected) and another on sick leave (unexpected).  So there was a strong realization that if we were going to get to the end of it having accomplished anything, it was going to be God's deal, not ours.  Which is exactly how it panned out.

As I look back over my shoulder and see how Highview has grown in her sense of mission, and see what God did in terms of the spiritual formation of individuals and of us as a whole, I can hardly believe it.  Yes, we had to adjust, and no, we didn't check everything off 'the list'.  But still, the way people pulled together and grace-flexed and opened themselves to the work of God in their lives wasn't just amazing in itself, but allowed for astonishing and beautiful expressions of God's justice and mercy to be manifest in many different venues.

This in spite of a significant disruption when the entire basement of our church, including all our children's ministry space and my office, was wiped out for six weeks by a spring flood.  You can really see the strength of your community when not just the immediate crisis, but the tedious ongoing disruption, tests the patience and grace we want to be known for.  Highview people are truly exceptional!

Personally, despite the 'extra' responsibilities and disruption, I experienced one of the most balanced, sane seasons of pastoral service I can remember.  My own meditative times with God, my personal and academic study of His Word, and the rhythm of work, play and rest, provided me with deep nourishment and a consistent awareness of Christ's power and presence in each day.   I am rich beyond imagining.

As such, Ephesians 3:20-21 has become something of a theme text for me.

"Now unto him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we can ask or imagine according to his power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen."

Yup.  His power at work within us.  Because it wasn't me, it wasn't us.

Recently I picked up Michael W. Smith's new CD "Sovereign".  I'm enjoying the spiritual food in almost every track, but one song in particular is giving voice to my sense of awe and surrender to this God beyond imagining.    I Lay Me Down  

I leave it with you in case it speaks to you as well.  And pray that your own finish line, whenever that is and however that comes to you in your own rhythms of life, will also find you satisfied and grateful and ready for the rest that restores you in the deepest of places.