night owls

All the leaves are brown, 

And the sky is grey

I went for a walk on a winter's day

I'd be safe and warm if I was in L.A.

California dreamin' 

on such a winter's day

I stopped into a church 

I passed along the way

You know, I got down on my knees

And I pretend to pray

Oh, the preacher likes the cold

He knows I'm gonna stay

Oh, California dreamin' on such a winter's day.

Written by John and Michelle Phillips, © 1966

That is the song in my head right now. It's dark and cold.  And quiet.  It's the time of year that makes me long for sunny beaches, sweaty trail runs, tshirts and bare feet.  It's hard to get out of bed, hard to leave the house, hard to be "sunny".

The darkness isn't just a weather thing.  We keep getting phone calls announcing sickness and treatment plans.  Loved ones are moving across country, from "any time-around the corner" here, to only vacations and plane trips away. Our case loads drop dramatically in the winter due to death.  Our spirits are gray and grim.  Life is mean sometimes.

And the quiet isn't just a sound thing.  There is a quiet after the festivities of Christmas.  There is a quiet that comes from gritting through and a quiet in withdrawing.  There is a "winter of the soul" when God's light is not so obvious.  When even God is quiet.

A couple nights ago I was standing on my front porch at 3:00 AM.  I wrapped a cozy blanket around me as I waited in the dark for our puppy to circle the yard and find her perfect pooping spot. I am never outside at 3:00 AM and was captivated by the stillness, the twinkling stars and crisp air.  I stood perfectly still soaking it all in.  Then, through the quiet, something fluttered down to the ground about two feet from me.  I stared at a little brown and white owl, oblivious to my presence. He had a beautiful round face and soft feathers.  He grabbed a worm, then flew up to a branch next to me.  After gulping it down, he fluttered back down to the sidewalk next to me and stood quietly with me.  Until puppy came bounding back and the little owl flew off.

It was a magical moment.  Somehow it felt like a holy gift.  I crawled back into my warm bed feeling incredibly lucky to have been a part of the night.  I thought about the saying, scrawled in chalk, on our office wall.  "If you love SURPRISES, you are going to love LIFE."

I want to remember, in the cold, in the darkness, that there will be another summer.  The sun will shine again.  And in the meantime there will be warm blankets, hot chocolate, starry skies.  There may even be an owl or two.

In Still, Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis, Lauren Winner talks about how, no matter what life brings you, "two years from now you will know some things about God that you don't know now."  And through the times where God is silent "You begin to think that maybe you can wait in the company of God's silence and see what you can see, about this God, about yourself.  Later still: Maybe this silence, this absence, is a gift.  Maybe what began as punishment is being converted to become an experience of God's strangeness, God's mystery.  You think:  Maybe I am being shown something here, if I would look, if I would see.  You think of these words from the prophet Zephaniah: He will shout with joy for you, He will jump for you in jubilation, He will be silent in His love."

superb!

He had made thousands of smooth landings in his years as a pilot for Pan Am.  But today he was nervous.  Today he was flying a full plane, and in first class were a group of Russian Naval Intelligence officers traveling from Washington D.C. to New York City.  As they began the descent, George decided this was going to be the smoothest landing those officers had ever experienced.  He worked the controls and guided the plane down until the wheels slid onto the runway.  A "mother's kiss" landing, as it was known to the pilots.  Gentle as a whisper.  When the plane reached the gate and stopped, George took his place at the cockpit door to nod at the passengers.

The Russian Naval Intelligence officers were soon at the door.  The stewardess greeted them and then turned to their leader.  "What did you think of our landing today?" she asked him.

In his deep Russian accent, the man boomed one word.  "SUPERB!" and walked off the plane.  George felt the word echoing through the plane and in his ears all day.  SUPERB!  He loved that word. "Marked to the highest degree by grandeur, excellence, brilliance, or competence."  He loved how he felt when the word was directed at him.  George decided he wanted to use that word regularly.  To find people and actions around him that merited that word.  Every day.  And so he began to look, and notice and pronounce SUPERB! whenever he could.

One day it was the service he received in a diner.  One his check stub he wrote a one word note to the waitress.  SUPERB!  The next day a plane's mechanic heard the word.  The next day it was proclaimed to anyone listening about the subway's efficiency.  And then a sunrise....

George told me this story this week.  Right after our hospice had been rewarded with a loud SUPERB!  The Russian officers had flow with George in 1971.  For over 40 years George has been looking for excellence.  And finding it all around him.

I shared this story with my team the next morning.  I talked about how many times they do amazing work in private.  For one patient, or one family member.  I reminded them of their value and asked them to hear that Russian officer in their minds, looking over their shoulder and exclaiming "SUPERB!"

And then I began my awareness of the superb all around me, to remind me of all there is to be thankful for.

like today -
a toasty heater in my bathroom, cutting the cold
two hot air balloons floating in the crisp, autumn sky as we drove to school
the buzz of coworkers, full of friendly chatter around our long, work table
Urban Burrito's delicious Bonehead salad and a diet coke
speed dial.  And a crystal clear connection that instantly links me to California
the efficiency of the Bilo grocery clerk
the laughter of my three men playing football in the leaves.

SUPERB! indeed.

tough mudders

This came in my email yesterday.

Erin is now a Tough Mudder and the owner of an orange headband.   Orange finisher headbands are never for sale. They can only be earned over 11+ miles of mud, fire, freezing cold water and challenging obstacles....

I still can't believe we did it!



There were awesome highlights.  *Making the trip with 5 really great women - Tough and encouraging! (That's Lisa, me, Heather L, Heather M, Shane, and Tanya taking the picture) 
*The purple Tough Mommas shirts that Heather designed.  
*Ploughing though the mud mile together.  *Spectators cheering the Tough Mommas on.  
*The beautiful  Moree's Sportsman Preserve we ran through.

There were awful parts.  Jumping into a huge trough of ice known as the arctic enema and swimming under a plank.  Not fun.  Getting shocked in the electric eel.  Not fun.   Wishing I had a lot more upper body strength.  Not fun.

But what has stayed with me most all week was an obstacle at the end of the course called Everest.  

Everest is, to quote the website, A quarter-pipe that you’ll have to sprint up and enlist the help of other Mudders to hurl you over this beastly summit. Everest is coated in mud and grease, a combination which will likely send you right back from where you came. Call upon other Mudders to catch you as you run up the quarter-pipe or work together to form a human chain so that you can scale someone’s shoulders to finally summit Everest.

I dreaded Everest all day.  And by the time we got there I was mud caked, beaten and spent.  I worried that the strong men helping people up the wall were probably already tired from aiding all the 90 pound spandexed women up, and might not be thrilled to see me coming.  And I was ready to be done.

But there is a no whining rule on the Tough Mudder course.  So I sucked it up and made a run for it.  Up to the wall as far as I could run.  I reached for the outstretched hands and made contact.  Then slipped out of their grasp and thudded back down the wall into a heap at the bottom.  Embarrassed, I stepped off the course.  At least I tried.

A photographer was standing nearby.  "You can do it!" He pep talked me.  "You have come this far.  I will help you.  You just need a little push from behind."  So I headed back to the starting line, and made the run again. Run, stretch, grab the hands, slip, fall.  Only this time I took out the photographer on my way down. 

A staff member was watching.  He had a shaved head, wore the bright yellow Mudder shirt and had helped countless others today.  He grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bottom of the half pipe where I was crumpled.  "We are doing this."  He said confidently.  "It is my mission in life to get you over this wall."  By now a crowd had gathered.  The event's main announcer was perched on the wall giving commentary on my attempts.  I was shaking and mortified.  Yellow man and the photographer ran with me up the pipe.  But I couldn't grab the outstretched hands tight enough and again I slid down.  

Yellow man stood me in front of the pipe.  Then he ran around the back and climbed up.  He leaned way over the ledge, calling for other guys to hold his legs.  Then he yelled for me to run hard.  Once again I ran, I reached, I grabbed.  But this time he was the one to catch me and he held on tight. He pulled me up and yelled for others to get my legs.  Suddenly I was over the ledge and laying on the top of Everest. The announcer was screaming "She did it!  She did it!"   I realized I was crying and saying "thank you" over and over. 

I have 19 little bruises on my legs and arms from Everest.  They are totally worth it.  I hope my yellow shirted hero fared better, but I bet he has some marks from it too.  I'm still embarrassed, still humbled, but most of all still so very grateful.  I continue to be so moved by his willingness to do whatever it took to get me over that wall.


With the adrenaline from this crazy event wearing off, I've been philosophical.  I've been thinking about so many other times in my life when I've faced daunting walls and slipped, crashed, and failed.  I keeping thinking of all the yellow shirts in my life who have encouraged, pushed and pulled me over when I could not do it myself.

All week I have pictured my yellow shirted hero leaning over the edge with arms outstretched.  I want to be that for others.  I've been inspired by that picture while I sit with my patients.  I want to be that kind of parent and that kind of friend.

Someday I will finish this ultimate obstacle course.   I will join a whole host of survivors who grabbed on to Jesus' outstretched hands, and realize just how far He had to lean out to hold us.  I will see the marks where He was was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities.  Instead of a orange tough mudder head band I will be given a robe of righteousness.  One without a single thread of my own ability.  A total gift wrapped tightly around me.  I will be done with the mud forever and will loudly claim this promise for eternity.

Now to Him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you spotless before the presence of His glory with great joy.  Jude 1:24

backpacks

On my summer booklist was Cheryl Strayed's Wild: from lost to found on the Pacific Crest Trail.  Though I'm not a backpacker, the great writing and universal story of grief and transformation captured me from page one.  "With warmth and humor, Wild vividly captures the terrors and pleasures of one young woman forging ahead against all odds on a journey that maddened, strengthened, and ultimately healed her."  I finished the last quarter of the book while curled up on a plane heading to California.

Two days later my parents introduced me to the movie The Way, -the story of Tom and the international group of people he meets making a pilgrimage on the "El Camino de Santiago" from France to Spain.  Tom's journey also frustrated, strengthened and healed him.  In ways that touched my heart.

With my mind full of life changing adventures, it felt so right to strap on my beloved pewter back pack.  Instead of the high sierras or a French countryside, I backpacked through Greenville airport, then Houston, then Ontario and then back.  But this was a pilgrimage, nevertheless.

In the quiet of my plane seat I determined that my Wild experience, my Camino journey was 14 months of CPE training in a Spartinburg hospital.  But I've had many Hajj moments and seasons.  From school and church days to my current tour with my hospice team. 

If a pilgrimage is a search of moral or spiritual significance, then every time I dust off my backpack alone or journey to a new space with others, my quest is expanded and enriched.

I love this review of The Way.  "Gradually the experience of the Camino works its way into the spirits of the pilgrims. They become mirrors for each other, helping to strip away the protective layers that have preserved their pain and isolation, and with their new vulnerability, freeing them to feel and connect once more. In the end, the message of this poignant film is that opening our hearts to others is the real miracle. Connecting with them through kindness and laughter and joy is the magic that invites the presence of God."

Blessed are those whose strength is in You, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.   Psalms 84:5 NIV

pastor

My text message alerted me to call one of my patients immediately.  I quickly dialed, expecting to jump in my car and rush over.  Instead it was a simple question. "Chaplain? We are filling out a form for the funeral home and it asks us to lists our pastor.  We don't have a pastor.  Can we put your name down?

Mary pulled me aside during a visit with her dying mother.  "We just want a simple graveside service, but mother was never part of a church here.  Would you be our pastor?"

I love this about my job. Some of my patients are fully connected in active churches.  I'm the pitch hitter.  Some of my patients have slipped away from their churches.  I'm the reconnecter.  Some of my patients make it very clear they don't anything to do with church or religion.  I'm just part of the team, building a relationship, trust and providing a new picture of spiritual care. But for any of my patients that don't have one and want one, I'm their pastor.  What a privilege.

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to have a pastor.

It used to be so cut and dry.  You went to church.  You had a pastor.  That one person was responsible for your spiritual needs and your spiritual inspiration.  Not only did that person marry and bury you, they also provided guidance and nurture, connection and community.

But it has gotten more complicated.  I have some friends who are members of a church in another state but have been greatly let down by their current pastor. They feel betrayed and disappointed.  I have friends who don't have a church in the area their jobs have taken them to, and they feel anchorless.  I have friends who felt no need of a church community until tragedy struck and now they long for someone to speak the words of hope and promise they learned as children.  And then there are others of us who have a church we love, but sometimes going there brings up all manners of pain, and we create a distance to protect ourselves.

Recently an atheist friend of my parents called them and said "I need to come over and talk to you as my pastor."  "What did he mean by that?"  I asked.  "I think he wanted a safe place to process his journey and be listened to."  Dad responded.

Who doesn't need that?  Maybe the pastors in our lives can't always be identified by the collar they wear or the location of their office.  I think about my friend Vicki.  Just out of chaplain training we felt the need for added spiritual direction.  Vicki invited me and a couple other women and arranged for us to meet in a little side room of her beautiful and historical All Souls Episcopal Cathedral in Biltmore.  With stained glass and wooden pews, it was a reverent place to pray, read and share our hearts.  (sadly for me, Vicki moved across the country to pastor a whole, lucky congregation.)

I think of my friend Audra who drove 45 minutes each way, at night, to visit me when my dad had a stroke.   I think of my running buddies who pound the pavement, one slow, sweaty mile at a time with me.  They celebrate and mourn the every day stuff with me.  It is as far from a "church setting" as one can get.  But it is healing and affirming.  Sometimes it just takes Matthew West singing Strong Enough or Chris August singing Starry Night on my car radio to move my soul to a better place.

Maybe the best ministry happened to me this summer during a long conversation with my mom and dad about how important it is for people to have a pastor.  As a person who "puts out" spiritually for a living, I continue to realize that I need to be more aware and more intentional about getting pastored. Who is inspiring me?  Who keeps me accountable?  Who is part of my true community?  And how can I better reflect those qualities to my patients and my friends?  In the priesthood of all believers, who are my pastors?

Last Friday night was an awful night for our family.  In the space of two hours, our beloved french bull dog went from seemingly fine to rush-to-the-vet sick.  And then she died.  We spent the night shocked and heart broken.  Saturday afternoon there was a knock on our door.  Our pastor Bryan and his wife Sharon had heard of Maeve's passing.  They are dog lovers and knew our pain.  They sat in our living room and talked about Maeve and school and summer.  We shed a few tears and enjoyed some needed laughter.  After 30 minutes or so, they hugged us and took off.  In the quiet after they left, Josh said "You can really tell pastor Bryan is a pastor."  "Why do you say that?" I asked.  "He knew we were sad and he came over." Josh replied with a shrug.

Maybe it is as simple as that.

gold medals

After weeks of build up to the Summer Olympics, I couldn't wait for them to start. I tuned in with the other estimated 1 billion people watching on TV, the 60,000 spectating live in London (including Kate Middleton, Prince William, Michelle Obama and David Beckham, to name a few.)  to watch over 2,500 volunteer performers in the $42 million Olympic Stadium opening ceremonies.


I'm always impressed by the athlete's skill, and the amazing quality and ability of their bodies.  And love having a few I know enough about to root for by name.


It does seem half a world away though.  A whole other world actually. Pure, peak, physical perfection.  Hhhmmm. Nope.  Can't relate.


I found this quote this morning and read it at our hospice team meeting.


In 'The World According to Mr. Rogers' Fred Rogers writes  A high school student wrote to ask, "What was the greatest event in American history?"  I can't say.  However, I suspect that like so many 'great' events, it was something very simple and very quiet with little or no fanfare (such as someone forgiving someone else for a deep hurt that eventually changed the course of history.)  The really important 'great' things are never center stage of life's dramas; they're always "in the wings." That's why it's so essential for us to be mindful of the humble and the deep rather than the flashy and the superficial.


Just picture a world where gold medals were given for bathing an elderly man with senile dementia, holding a lonely woman's hand, playing ping pong with your son even though you are tired, including your sibling as you play with your friends, taking a warm meal to a hurting family or making room in your row at church, for a person who arrived alone. Pure, peak, unselfish love.


I love Hebrews 12:1's reminder of how important this perspective is, and that we are being rooted for by name.  


Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.


Mindful of the humble and the deep.  The essential.  Let's go for the gold!

me and Nita

This week I picked up the recent issue of Vanity Fair, and found a story I could not put down.  (just ask my mom, who listened patiently as I followed her around her house, reading paragraphs aloud to her:)


The article introduced me to Nita Ambani.  I was interested in reading about her attempts to raise three grounded, outwardly focused children.  I was intrigued that she transformed herself with a 100 lb weight loss through yoga and diet,  And how could I not want to know more about her just-finished-creation of the largest and most expensive house in the world?


But even more compelling was how Nita Ambani gives back to the world.  Read a small excerpt about her, in James Reginato's words, from the article.


In the past years Nita has built a series of enterprises that are proud success stories in contemporary India, including an international preparatory school, a premiere League cricket team, the nation's first Braille newspaper in Hindi, and a 400 acre model township that houses 12,000 people and stands adjacent to the world's largest oil refinery.  A 400 bed hospital wing is under construction and plans are proceeding for a world class university on 1000 acres of property.


While it is true that all of these undertakings are owned or financed by her husband, Mukesh, the richest person in India and the 19th richest in the world, Nita has earned respect in her own right through the country for her vision, drive and willingness to get her jeweled and manicured fingers dirty.


In 1997, when Mukesh was building the world's largest oil refinery, he put Nita in charge of creating an entire town from scratch in order to house the facility's work force of 4,800 and their families.  Located in the remote desert near the city of Jamnagar, in Gujarat, the new town required a hospital, a school, recreational centers, and shopping facilities, in addition to housing.  For about two years, she commuted to the site three times a week, leaving at seven am on one of the company plans for the hour long flight to Jamnagar, where she worked out of tin sheds in blistering heat, wading through brambles and bushes to various construction sites.


While the township has been recognized world wide as a model project, what Nita accomplished in the arid countryside around it is just as extraordinary.  She and Mukesh planted 138,000 mango trees on what was once barren land, to create the largest mango orchard in Asia.  Planting another 2.4 million mangrove trees for good measure, they basically built their own rain forest, which has altered the area's micro-climate and eco-system: the trees have brought rain, which in turn has brought migratory birds and animals.   


Wow!  Right?  And this is only a small taste of her accomplishments.  What?  You want to know more?  How about this....

...Emboldened, Nita decided Mumbai needed a first-rate preparatory school that was up to international standards.  Before the Dhirubhai Ambani International School opened its doors, in 2003, she attended to its every detail, riding school buses to assess their comfort, designing uniforms, choosing fabric for upholstery, sampling the cafeteria fare, as well as planning the curriculum and overseeing faculty appointments.  The school is now ranked as one of the best in India.  Vanity Fair June 2012  James Reginato

This woman is a tornado of plans, resources and energy.  O.K. I'm putting the magazine down.  Even though that means I can't write about how Nita remodeled the nation's scrubby rugby team into victorious champions...


Here's what learning about Nita made me think about personally.


1.  When I day dream about being, say for example, the 19th richest person in the world, my thoughts usually go to what I won't have to do any more.  Permanent vacation from work, never have to scrub another toilet, no more trying to figure out what's for dinner because my chef will have that covered.  Etc, etc, etc. Harmless, I think, since there is no danger of me actually becoming filthy rich.  But still, I'm so inspired that someone who actually has that kind of money spends so much time looking for ways to help others.  To the extent of revolutionizing educational systems and developing new rain forests.  Wow again.  Surely there can be ways I can be more like that, more generous, less selfish, even on a budget.


2.  This article reminded me again of how big our world is.  For the most part my world is Buncombe country.  All 660 square miles of it. And yes, I am the center of this little universe.  And then I read about this remarkable woman, who I have never heard of, in a place I know nothing about.  It's humbling to be reminded of my place in this global community.  To continue to grow and flourish in my little place, but to be thoughtful and compassionate to my world.  Tonight I am anticipating the Olympics in London, and am grieving with the families in Aurora, Colorado.  It's a start.


Thank you Nita.  Keep up the good work!

poetry

As I walked down the long, dark hall to their bedroom I could hear her lilting voice, strong and sure.  He was in bed with his eyes closed, and she sat beside him.  I joined her and after a little small talk, I asked about the beautiful words I had heard her reading to him.

She laughed and said it was just lines from their favorite poems, that they always would quote to each other.  She thought it might feel comforting for him to hear those familiar words filling their room again.

I had never heard these poems before.  But I am always mesmerized by the power of words.  Lyrical and evocative. Novel and appealing.  I scribbled down a few notes so I could look  the poems up later. 

Though my soul may set in darkness, 

it will rise in perfect light; 

I have loved the stars too fondly 

to be fearful of the night.

The Old Astronomer to His Pupil by Sarah Williams.

and

   In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of

             pleasures. For in the dew of little things, does the heart find its morning and is refreshed.”  The Prophet by Khalil Gilbran

As I watched this couple, in their mid nineties, I again realized what a different world they grew up in.  Not to idealize the past.... but picture a world light years before Mario Kart, skater brands, Jack Ass 3 or mopeds.  Men wore ties and hats, they danced gracefully, they hand-wrote letters and opened car doors.  And they read, memorized and quoted poetry to the women they were wooing.


Pardon me while I swoon for a moment.


It was a different time.  Quentin Tarantino summed it up by saying "You can't write poetry on the computer."


Close your eyes and have someone read these words to you.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs. 

And as silently steal away. 

The Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Now tell me you aren't transported somewhere else.


Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement  wrote Christopher Fry.  Maybe that is part of what moves us.  Being reminded to wonder and be amazed. To slow down and listen well. To invest in a rhythm and imagery.  To let beautiful words become a part of our conversation and character.


I did what I could tonight.  Amidst piles of laundry, I pulled my trusty volume of Robert Frost off the shelf.  I made my eleven year old boy and my twelve year old boy put down their Nintendo DS's and listen to Fences Make Good Neighbors and Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening.  They aren't converts yet.  But I feel better knowing their souls are the tiniest bit infused with poetry.  

Sunshine cannot bleach the snow, 
Nor time unmake what poets know. 
~Ralph Waldo Emerson 

coming home

He was already dead when I got there, rushing to respond to a patient-in-decline call on a brand new patient we hadn't met yet.  Our nurse was on her way, but it would be awhile.  So we sat on the floor in the hall, next to Bert's body, right where he had fallen.  And in the shock and grief that comes with such an abrupt loss, Gloria talked about Bert.  High School tough guy. Vietnam vet.  Builder.  An addict.  Marriage problems.  How he'd been a good father and a really good grandfather.  She talked and cried and laughed.  And I found myself patting Bert's leg occasionally so he wouldn't feel like we had forgotten he was there on the floor between us.


Two days later Gloria called me and asked if I would speak at Bert's memorial service.  It would be casual, she said. After years of having nothing to do with church, Burt had been baptized a year ago.  He loved the story of the prodigal son.  "Can you just talk about that?" she asked.


Well, that was a first for me.  But then nothing about this experience had been "traditional".   


So I drove back up the gravel road to the small house with a large deck around it.  On one side of the deck was a barbeque pit, on the other side, big coolers of beer and 30 plus people with folding chairs looking for the right spot to sit.


Here are the basics of what I said:


I met Bert the day he died.  You all have known him for so many years.  I can't wait to hear what you are going to share about him in just a minute.  Here is what I know about Bert.  I know that he built this wonderful deck we are all sitting on.  I know he loved his family and friends.  Each of you here.  And I've been told that he loved the story of the prodigal son.  I do too.  I want to share a couple things I love about this story.  Maybe they're the same things Bert loved about it.


1.  I loved that it is a story for all of us.  Everyone of us can relate in someway to the prodigal son.  We all know what its like to make dumb decisions and to head for the far away country.  The Bible makes it clear that we all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.  We all know what it's like to wake up unhappy and say what am I doing with my life?  We all know that tug in hearts that pulls us home to the Father's house.  This story levels the playing field for each one of us.


2.  I love that the story makes it so clear that the whole time the boy is away, the Father is missing him.  Waiting and watching.  Longing for him.  "It is God's kindness that leads us to repentance."  Bert had so many ups and downs.  Times when he felt God's presence.  Times when he was angry.  Times when he felt lost.  God never lost sight of Bert.  God never gave up on Bert.  God never stopped loving Bert.


3.  I love the part where the boy comes home.  Dirty, smelly, ashamed, with a long speech - I am not worthy to be called your son.... "But the father wasn't listening.  The father was running to meet him.  The father was hugging and kissing him.  The father was showering him with gifts and yelling to his friends "My boy is home!"   What better picture of God do you need?  That is a God we can all trust Bert too.  We can all rest knowing Bert is in that God's hands.


I prayed.  Then everyone got a chance to share.  We filled the late afternoon with sounds of friends and family reminiscing, sharing, laughing and crying together.  About Bert's famous Chicken Pot Pie, the disasterous pool Bert built for his grandchildren, how people called him The Discovery Channel because he had an opinion about everything.  It went on for over an hour, before the grill got fired up and bottle tops began popping.  Another journey's end party for another beloved prodigal.

books

A warm day with a cool breeze.  Strawberries, lemonade, and barbecue.  Dear friends I hadn't seen in ages.  (Robin, Vicki and Leah) And a passionate conversation about books.  Close to a perfect afternoon!  Robin had some personal growth titles he knew I'd be interested in, like When The Past is Present.  I brought Vicki and Leah Second Wind: One Woman's Midlife Quest to Run Seven Marathons on Seven Continents.  We all love stories about women adventuring to find themselves.  And for Robin Foreskin's Lament - since he enjoys the "escaping a troubled religious past" genre.  Oh yeah, it's summer.


There is something about summer that promises me new books.  Longer days, fewer tv shows, two sunny beach weeks.  It's time.   Most of the year I read a lot of hospice and spiritual books as part of my work.  But summer gives me permission to branch out, time to explore, and even indulge in a little junk food reading.  For the last few months I have been stockpiling books in my Amazon cart.  I've purchased books I couldn't resist after wandering around in Barnes and Noble.  I have collected other people's favorites.  And now my stack has grown to intimidating heights.


My sister-in-law tells me I've got an addiction.  "Just go to the library."  She is one to talk!  She just keeps her book pile neatly hidden on her Kindle.  But if I needed any validation that I'm not the only one who loves to be surrounded by books, I was introduced to this awesome site.  BookShelfPorn.  If these pictures don't make you want to read, I don't know what will.


And one final piece of advice from the above site, to make us book worms feel desirable.
"Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve."   A Girl You Should Date via @brainpicker


As of today here is my stack.  Here are the stories that will hopefully challenge, inspire, entertain and enrich me in through the summer.

Two novels -
The Expats, by Chris Pavone.  "Smart, clever suspense, skillfully plotted" says John Grisham.  I bought this for Steve because of the title and promise of suspense.  Then read the front flap and knew I would have to read it first.
And Jennifer Weiner's latest Then Came You.  I bought this for my mother-in-law's beach reading, and am sneaking a read through first.


Two "life changers" - To The Last Breath.  A story of bucket lists and going to extremes by Francis Slakey.
And Wild. From lost to found on the pacific crest trail by Cheryl Strayed.  Recommended and lent to me by my mom, who knows a book I'd love when she sees it.


Some history - Lady on the Hill.  How Biltmore Estate became an American Icon.  I peeked at this at a patient's house and  was intrigued to learn more about my neighborhood.


A memoir - This Is Not The Story You Think It Is... A season of unlikely happiness by Laura Munson.  It caught my eye...


A travel guide (of sorts) An Idiot Abroad, the travel diaries of Karl Pilkington.  I bought this for my brother after he got us turned on to the show.  But again, am compelled to read it before I gift it....


Two food books -  Wheat Belly and Beat Sugar Addiction Now.  Because they just seem to hit the nail on the head.


Then two inspirational-
Love Does, discover a secretly incredible life in an ordinary world. by Bob Goff.  A fascinating Christian whose stories have already captivated me.  Jake is going to read this book with me.
And Seven Sacred Pauses, living mindfully through the hours of the day. By Macrina Wiederkehr.  I got introduced to this book through the book 7, and realized I had to read the whole thing.


If you are still reading this, I know you have some book suggestions for me.  Though you know I really shouldn't buy another book until 2013....but oh well.  Tempt me...

millie's memorial day

I met a darling 90 year old woman last week.  One of the first things I noticed when I entered her room was an 8x10 picture of a handsome soldier hanging next to her bed.  "Is that your husband?" I asked.  "Yes, that's him at the beginning of World War II."  She answered.  "He was one of the two miracles in my life."  I sensed a good story and settled in.


Millie met Thomas right after she turned 17.  There was something about the young man that drew her.  Something beyond the big smile and clean, pressed uniform.  Her interest didn't wane when he told her that he was leaving in one month to fight in Germany.  When Millie found out that Thomas wasn't a believer she committed to pray for him while he was gone.  That turned into a lengthy commitment.  "God hovered over Thomas for years even though Thomas wasn't a Christian.  God took Thomas through 5 years of war, through 4 major battles. Then He brought him home to learn the truth."


Thomas finally returned home.  He joined Millie's church and then he and Millie got married.  Thomas returned to school and entered the ministry.  For the next fifty years he was a traveling preacher, moving throughout the Carolinas, Virginia and Tennessee.  If a church was without a pastor for a while, Thomas would fill in.  If a church was dwindling, Thomas would come to help strengthen it.  And after "praying Thomas into the truth",  now Millie turned her prayers to her unbelieving brother, Jim.


Millie's mother was a "shouting Methodist".   I had never heard the term before but love this description.  "Frontier Americans cracked jokes about the "shouting Methodists" but the Wesleyans wore the label as a badge of honor. They felt their own joy was one of the best advertisements for the truth of the message they preached."


Millie found her mother's faith inspiring and longed to be a shouting Methodist.  But instead she was a "crying Methodist" like her father.  She began to pray for the gift of shouting, and one day, clear as a bell, she felt God telling her that He would give her the gift just one time.  At the right time.  So she waited.


When Millie was forty years old, she moved with Thomas to serve three churches in Western Carolina.  They moved to the same town as Millie's family.  One prayer meeting night was made challenging by hail, thunder and lightening.  Millie's mother offered to watch the youngest children and stay home.  Millie's brother, Jim offered to drive the rest of the family going to prayer meeting in his car to keep them dry.  That night while Thomas "laid out the gospel plain as day", Jim gave his heart to God.  As he walked to the altar, Millie began to shout, hearing God's voice saying "See!  I done told you the time would come."


The joyful group packed into the car to return home.  Millie couldn't wait to tell her mother the good news.  But she didn't have to.  When they drove up to the house, Millie's mother was standing in the doorway shouting.  "God told her plain the moment it happened, and she didn't stop shouting til we was all home."


"So there was my miracles."  Millie smiled as she wrapped up her story.  "Thomas came home from war, and Jim joined the winning side of the battle."  And Millie got to shout.


The LORD will march out like a champion, like a warrior he will stir up his zeal; with a shout he will raise the battle cry and will triumph over his enemies.  Isaiah 42:13

beautiful

I've been thinking about beauty a lot lately. 

I just got People magazine's Most Beautiful In The World edition.  Lots of pretty there.  We just watched the season finale of Hawaii 5.0.  Lots of pretty there.  :)

And I've been planning for our 25th high school alumni weekend in Maryland.  If there is ever a time to look your best, it's alumni.  With all your old friends who knew you when you were all youthful, cute and fresh.  So hair has been cut and highlighted, clothes have been bought, nails have been done.  I even signed up for a half marathon in mid May, so by alumni I would be hard into my training.  Tight muscles and many, many calories burned.

Then April arrived and brought with it HIGH pollen counts and off-the-chart allergy levels. My immune system went into "full, exaggerated response mode."  Fresh air and an elevated heart rate became my worst enemies.  My new look is bloodshot eyes, red and cracked nose, a puffy face and starting-to-atrophy muscles. 

I made it through Friday night and Saturday morning of alumni.  Wore my new clothes, saw my old friends.  But by Saturday afternoon I was curled up in our friend's guest room with a box of kleenex and a cold washcloth over my face.  In between my sneezing and nose blowing, I could hear our friends laughing and talking upstairs.

The last straw was a text from my friend Barbara, five states away, commenting on an alumni picture.  "You are looking beautiful right now!  Love the new top."  I rushed to facebook to find a number of pictures posted from that morning.  It was worse than I thought.  Much worse.  Bad angles, bad lighting, and most of all, a bad dose of reality.  I picked the pictures apart, found all the unfavorable comparisons and plotted my move to a distant land.  Then I put the wet washcloth over my red, runny nose and curled up again.  Not so pretty....

After a while, in that dark room, I had to get strict with myself.  Allergy season will pass.  It always does.  My cracked nose will heal.  I can start exercising again.  Those things will help.  In the meantime I do have control over some truly unattractive facets in my being - like envy, jealousy, resentment, anger, self pity.... I identified these little monsters and released them out into the pollen filled yard.

I thought about people I know and love whose inner beauty shines so brightly.  I remembered how much I want to be filled with the qualities of grace, gratitude and generosity.  I practiced them right there in the dark room.

And I thought about how "beauty is in the eye of the beholder."  I am so blessed to have friends who see the same pictures I am so critical of and find something lovely in them. 

That night I read this inspiring prayer from Seven Sacred Pauses.  It takes the focus off me.  It elevates beauty to so much more than a magazine cover or outfit.  It draws me to a better place.

O You whose face is a thousand colors...look upon us in this twilight hour, and color our faces with the radiance of your love.  As the light of the sun fades away, light the lamps of our hearts that we may see one another more clearly.  Let the incense of our gratitude rise as our hearts become full of music and song.  May the work  that we bring with us into this hour fall away from our minds as we enter into the mystical grace of the evening hour.  Amen.