Thank you Ann Voskamp

The house is silent. And I am grateful. Quiet Time.  For stillness. For thoughtfulness.  For confronting the things deep within that are unsettled and wearisome and weighty enough that they illicit tears. I am cracked and parched and desperate for someone to soothe.

I reach for a book, words to fill the last few moments of wakefulness, and realizing the book I am presently reading (Frankenstein) is left downstairs, I reach out, almost reluctantly, for Ann Voskamp's book, One Thousand Gift, which is a permanent fixture on my bedside table,  The past few days have been, well, a bit angsty and panicky and hard. The struggle for joy- a painfully real struggle. The ordinary, which I normally see as life giving and hope-filled,  clouded, not full of beauty, but dreadfully dull, monotonous, meaningless.

And yet, even in my dread, I reach for this book on thanksgiving and living the eucharistic life and find again what initially drew me to this work so many years ago: a source of healing, a promise of peace once again. Thanks. Giving thanks. Deliberately and constantly. If I felt the joy draining from me, perhaps it was because I stopped saying, "thank you" and forgetting, to quote my staretz, Mary Oliver, that "my work is loving the world." Loving the world right where I am at. Loving those right in front of me.

"I am a hunter of beauty and I move slow and I keep the eyes wide, every fiber of every muscle sensing all wonder and this is the thrill of the hunt and I could be an expert on the life full, the beauty meat that lurks in every moment. I hunger to taste life. God."

Thank you Ann Voskamp

Turning Seven

"The boys crowded into the kitchen, where they made a wonderful mess as they creamed the sugar into the butter, pounding fiercely with wooden spoons until they had achieved a perfectly smooth emulsion. They each broke one egg into a bowl, stirring with such vigor I was glad I hadn't given them a bowl made of glass. They measured flour and baking soda with enormous concentration, and buttered the pan so carefully that not a millimeter remained bare. Then they dusted it with clouds of flour. As I surveyed my ruined kitchen, it occurred to me that life really couldn't get any better than this." -froom Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphires 

Russell chose carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, which he didn't eat.

Elliot chose chocolate cake with vanilla butter cream, which Russell did eat.

Happy Seventh Birthday to the Sons of Thunder!

Lovely to be Thy guest

O God, thou art my God; early will I seek thee: my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is...because Thy lovingkindness is better than life, my lips shall praise Thee...because Thou hast been my help, therefore in the shadow of Thy wings will I rejoice. 

- from Psalm 63

There is a stillness enveloping this day. Inside I hear the rhythmic patter of feet running up and down the stairs, the flip of a light switch off and on; laughter pure and without reservation. I am roused from my drowsiness by a bird chattering her laud outside the kitchen window; the cicadas relentless in their droning song; the leaves gently fanning away the heat of the day; the slight ripple of water in the birdbath.

All of creation praises You but I do not.

What was I created for? To feed these children? To wash these dishes? To create a home? To hold a hand? To empty myself and embrace each person surrounding me, my sacred trust?

I am small, insignificant but the Lord is at my side.

I am here. "Be still. Listen," Christ seems to whisper. "You are not alone." 

The morning light flickers on the faces of the saints all around me and beckons me to remember. To remember that I am a part of a greater whole; a living thread in this crushingly beautiful tapestry of all creation, the Body of Christ.

Glory to Thee, O God, for the Feast Day of Life.

Cleaning up my kitchen today and found these thoughts from nearly a year ago scrawled on a piece of paper. The title and quotes were taken from my favorite akathist, http://www.saintjonah.org/services/thanksgiving.htm

A parent's prayer

Love begins at home, love lives in homes, and that is why there is so much suffering 
and so much unhappiness in the world today. If we listen to Jesus, He will tell us what He said before: 'Love one another, as I have loved you.' He  has loved us through suffering, dying on the Cross for us, and so if we are to love one another, if we are to bring that love into life again, 
we have to begin at home.
-Mother Teresa

O Heavenly Father, make me a better parent. 

Teach me to understand my children, to listen patiently to what they have to say, 

and to answer all their questions kindly. Keep me from interrupting them 

or contradicting them. Make me as courteous to them as I would have them be to me.

Forbid that I should ever laugh at their mistakes or resort to shame or ridicule 

when they displease me. May I never punish them for my own selfish satisfaction 

or to show my power. Let me not tempt my children to lie or steal. And guide me

 hour by hour that I may demonstrate by all that I say and do that honesty produces happiness.

When I’m out of sorts, help me, 0 Lord, to hold my tongue.
 May I ever be mindful that my children are children
and I should not expect of them the judgments of adults.

Let me not rob them of the opportunity to wait on themselves and to make decisions.
Bless me with the bigness to grant them all their reasonable requests 

and the courage to deny them privileges I know will do them harm. 

Make me fair and just and kind and fit me, O Lord, 

to be loved and respected and imitated by my children.

Amen

By Fr. James Meena, The Word, May 1978
Peace and Goodness.

I don't care if I never get back

Take me out to the ball game...

Take me out with the crowd.

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack...

I don't care if I never get back...

Let me root, root, root for the home team...

If they don't win it's a shame.

For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out...

At the old ball game.

Simple gifts

We do not have to do or be anything special in order to bring hope to the world.

We may not even know when God has used one of us as an angel unaware,

and that's just as well. Our part lies in being open, not to God Out There, 

but In Here, with us, in us.

 from A Stone for a Pillow, Madeline L'Engle

Then said a rich man, Speak to us of Giving,

And he answered : You give but little when you give of your possessions. 

It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

There are those who give little of the much which they have-and they give it for recognition

 and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome. 

And there are those who have little and give it all.

These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.

There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.

And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.

And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy,

nor give with mindfulness of virtue.

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Through the hands of such as these God speaks,

and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;

And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive 

is joy greater than giving.

And is there aught you would withhold?

All you have shall some day be given;

Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours

and not your inheritors.

You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving."

The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks of your pasture.

They give that they may live, 

for to withhold is to perish.

excerpts from "On Giving," from Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet

May Day 2014

Thank you to our friends and neighbors for your gifts!

And despite nearly freezing, Thomas's team won their baseball game tonight!!!

Peace and goodness.

Thank you

"It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour."
-from Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Listen

with the night falling we are saying thank you

we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings

we are running out of the glass rooms

with our mouths full of food to look at the sky

and say thank you

we are standing by the water looking out

in different directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging

after funerals we are saying thank you

after the news of the dead

whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

in a culture up to its chin in shame

living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you

in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators

remembering wars and the police at the back door

and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you

in the banks that use us we are saying thank you

with the crooks in the office with the rich and fashionable

unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us

our lost feelings we are saying thank you

with the forests falling faster than the minutes

of our lives we are saying thank you

with the words going out like cells of a brain

with the cities growing over us like the earth

we are saying thank you faster and faster

with nobody listening we are saying thank you

we are saying thank you and waving

dark though it is

 

-W.S. Merwin

What I have learned so far

What I Have Learned So Far

Mary Oliver

Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I

not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside, 

looking into the shining world? Because, properly

attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion.

Can one be passionate about the just, the

ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit

to no labor in its cause? I don't think so.

All summations have a beginning, all effect has a
story, all kindness begins with the sown seed.
Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of
light is the crossroads of — indolence, or action.

Be ignited, or be gone.

Delivering sugar cookies  

to the neighbors

St. Lucia Day

December 13, 2013

Child of God

From Henri Nouwen's The Inner Voice of Love

Do not discount what you have already accomplished. You have made important steps toward the freedom you are searching for. You have decided to dedicate yourself completely to God, to make Jesus the center of your life, and to be fashioned into an instrument of God's grace. Yes, you still experience your inner dividedness, your need for approval and acclaim. But you see that you have made important choices that show where you want to go.

You can look at your life as a large cone that becomes narrower the deeper you go. There are many doors in that cone that give you chances to leave the journey. But you have been closing these doors one after the other, making yourself go deeper and deeper into your center. You know that Jesus is waiting for you at the end, just as you know that he is guiding you as you move in that direction. Every time you close another door- be it the door of immediate satisfaction, the door of distracting entertainment, the door of busyness, the door of guilt and worry, or the door of self-rejection- you commit yourself to go deeper into your heart and thus deeper into the heart of God.

This is a movement toward full incarnation. It leads you to become what you already are- a child of God; it lets you embody more and more the truth of your being; it makes you claim the God within you. You are tempted to think that you are nobody in the spiritual life and that your friends are far beyond you on the journey. But this is a mistake.

You must trust the depth of God's presence in you and live from there. This is the way to keep moving toward full incarnation.

Mumma's Tree Farm

November 29, 2013

The grace of the world

The Peace of Wild Things

Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Annual trip to Stone's Apple Orchard

September 2013

One tiny girl fell off the hay rack while we were moving; one crazed mother jumped after

As of yesterday evening, all apples have finally been made into yummy sauce (sauce made especially delicious when Jared snuck in some ground cloves)

Been relishing each of these amazing "second summer" days with weekly field trips, arguing to myself that experiencing beauty and revering nature supercedes "schooling"

Tomorrow I leave for the annual St. Moses the Black conference being held in Kansas City, MO. Pretty excited for a six-hour car ride without kids.

Peaceful weekend.

Now you are four

Beauty is a heart that generates love.

Thich Nhat Hanh 

The Princess has taken to singing. 

Just the other night I stopped my frazzled attempts to clean the kitchen to give pause and listen to our daughter's tiny "Jesus Loves Me" as she quietly lay in bed awaiting sleep. The purity of the moment, her sincerity, humbled me anew. A glimpse of beauty. A glimpse of grace.

Another day she stretched her lean body in my arms as we all sat together, a solemnity on my heart as I read the beautiful book 14 Cows for America, remembering September 11th and describing that terrible day to the innocents around our kitchen table. And she began to sing. From her mouth, the Prayer of St. Francis, "O Lord make me an instrument of your peace..." A light in the darkness. A glimpse of God.

Our little light turned four last Saturday. An intimate gathering of family and friends came together at my mother's home to mark the day. She was near giddy with excitement and could not help lingering near the gifts, gingerly brushing aside the pieces of colored tissue paper, hoping to catch a glimpse at the hidden contents, giggling when gently reminded that she needed a bit more patience.

You are lovely Lucia Ethiopia Kebedech, chosen and special, carved into the palms of God's hands. Happy Birthday to you!

Our traditional Ethiopian clothes.

Her favorite...chocolate cake

Idle and blessed

What was it, I wondered, this seemingly unidentifiable flying creature? A giant butterfly? A moth? And then with a closer look, I realized in amazement that what I was watching gathering nectar from our flowering hostas was a hummingbird. I was awestruck. Really. In my forty years, I had never seen a hummingbird, it's vigorous flapping wings, it's long, thin beak seeking nourishment. Somehow that seems like a tragedy. 

School started for Thomas, Russell, and Elliot just over a week ago. And in the flurry of Thomas's and my challah baking and beeswax candle making (which was surprisingly easy), today's cooler temperatures and vibrant sunshine afforded the tinies the opportunity to take advantage of their day and throw an impromptu "tea" party. (It was milk. And no, I didn't realize that the milk had escaped from the fridge and was sitting on the front porch.) They were thrilled, and since they were not fighting and were enjoying themselves, so was I.

In order to further relish in the milder temperatures, tomorrow has been declared "field trip Friday." Our plan is to drop off our church's grocery offerings to a local food pantry; venture to the grocery store for some red carnations and probably some doughnuts; stop at one of my favorite places, the Riverside cemetery, and light one of the said candles, say some prayers, and leave our flowers; then journey to Blackhawk State Park for some exploring. "Are you happy?" Russell still likes to ask. Yes, Russell, happy and blessed. 

Peaceful weekend to you all.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? 

Live this day

I stretch my arm through the steel bars of his hospital bed and draw his hand out from the plaid blanket covering his increasingly emaciated body. With his consent, I wrap my fingers around his taut skinned and bony hand and begin to weave a story, a story of a life unknown to me. His eyes so often closed are open on this day, bright yet glassy, eyes which are seemingly searching the contents of my face for some sort of recognition. To my questions, he offers snippets after moments of silence. Is this futile? I wonder. Does remembering provoke pain? What is the truth? You whose diseased mind has dispossessed you of your memories, the date you were born, your mother's name, how you met your wife, even your children, whose smiling images sit posed upon your nightstand. Did you actually play the violin? Or have a brother named Al? Were you in the army? It is sobering and disconcerting how few clues to your life surround me in that space. Perhaps one day, when I have read your obituary, there will be answers to the questions riddling my mind. But at this moment, answers are not what matter, for together we sit, the hand of your habitual Sunday stranger clasped in your own, listening to Beethoven, Smetna, Dorsey, reading Berry, Oliver, and the poetry of the psalmists. I kiss your forehead before I leave and pray, and I recognize the bitterness under my lips, that of a body moving from life to death.

Then to you, beautiful boy just turned nine, crack your knuckles, wear those white t-shirts, spit profusely, sing with gusto, rock 'em "Gangnam style," cling to your blanket and Baby Owen, and by all means request to crawl up into the lap of your mother. May God grant to you a long and prosperous life. While, God willing, I will not be at your side as you lay dying, I pray that someone will sit quietly with you, holding your hand, whispering that you are loved. May you live, darling son, truly live, and grow to be full of courage, and wisdom, remembering that it is the poor who are blessed, the gentle ones who will inherit the earth, the peacemakers who will be God's children, the merciful who will be shown mercy, the pure in heart who will see God.

Bless them

Benediction 

Rabindranath Tagore

Bless this little heart, this white soul that has won the kiss of
heaven for our earth.
He loves the light of the sun, he loves the sight of his
mother's face.
He has not learned to despise the dust, and to hanker after gold.
Clasp him to your heart and bless him.
He has come into this land of an hundred cross-roads.
I know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door,
and grasped your hand to ask his way.
He will follow you, laughing the talking, and not a doubt in
his heart.
Keep his trust, lead him straight and bless him.
Lay your hand on his head, and pray that though the waves
underneath grow threatening, yet the breath from above may come and
fill his sails and waft him to the heaven of peace.
Forget him not in your hurry, let him come to your heart and
bless him.

One of the Korean War veterans who helped us celebrate.

Thomas later went on to break a board.

Special friends that we love to see each year!

"Adoption has the dimension of connection - not only to your own tribe, but beyond, widening the scope of what constitutes love, ties and family. It is a larger embrace. By adopting, we stretch past our immediate circles and, by reaching out, find an unexpected sense of belonging with others."

- Isabella Rossellini