The Winter from the Top of a Swing

I'm kind of tired of writing about Disney details for this week. I still have three more posts queued up and waiting for pictures and edits, but I think they can wait until next week.  Yesterday afternoon yielded an impromptu visit to the park and Mary Beth took some fun pictures with her iPod and I thought I'd just hang out here with you for awhile and think aloud about my friend Susan's last ever post and about all the wisdom there and about living a slow life. 

I've been praying hard lately about slow. Quiet. Whisper. I've been praying about creativity and asking God what He would have me do. And I don't have a crystal clear answer. Colleen called this afternoon to tell me all about how she walks at least three miles a day just to get anywhere. She told me about her kitchen with the lattice walls and the simplicity of it all. She was asking me to think for myself about how to bring mindfulness, slowness, simplicity to life in the suburbs of the the most powerful city on earth. Seems daunting. But then again, swimming against the tide is always slow isn't it? There's nothing slow about this place; I'd be swimming against the tide if I were even trying to move slowly.

The internet is fast. I feel my pulse quicken when I open the laptop. Text messaging and cell phones are fast. I watched a dear girl's furrowed brow grow smoothe when she let her battery die and took days to get around to recharging it. It is clear to me that we must be ever-vigilant lest we let technology fast forward our lives and infringe on the margins of clear, quiet space where we can just be still and know God.

Susan writes, "We live in a time when slowing down does not simply mean that we casually choose not to get caught in the speedy flow of our culture, but, increasingly, we must absolutely do battle against speed in order not to get caught up in the flow. And nowadays we have the added pressure placed on us by modern technology to be ever-available and always-distracted. But battling against this is very much worth the fight, in my opinion."

It's not just technology though. Interactions with our fully present community seem to demand expediency and efficiency. To be intentionally slow and soft requires a decided change in thought process. I find myself countering the activity of real life. This quiet is encapsulated in all the intentional choices to just be when the world asks us to hurry towards productivity. It's the wide open spaces in a day that allow us to look at the gift of a warm winter afternoon from the top of a swing.

Why create margins? Why slow down? What if we miss an opportunity? What if we don't network hard enough or fast enough or often enough? To that, I have to wonder, what if we're really missing a network that is much, much more important? Much, much more rewarding?

Susan goes on to remind us of some very poignant quotes: 

" 'All in order, sweet and lovely.'(Blake)  And I’ll quote the Bible, too: 'For God is not a God of disorder but of peace.' And why not thrown in Anne Morrow Lindbergh who said that it is only framed in space that beauty blooms? And all of this goes for our whole life; order is not just about the arrangement of our stuff! A beautiful life of margin saves space—uncluttered and unhurried—for the unexpected, for surprise, for serendipity, for spontaneity, for compassion, for instant hospitality, for relationships, and for lots of good things to happen."

The internet has blessed me in so many ways. Daily, my life is touched for the better by the people I have met online.  I am grateful forever for blogging--the medium suits me well. But I think I am a slow blogger. I cannot--will not, perhaps--keep up with the frantic pace of being everywhere online. Networking zaps me. The internet allows us to be pulled into the extroverted world without every leaving home or saying a word. I think it could be an unnatural exposure for an invtrovert.

Sometimes I am sure I would love a house like this, not to live in, just to retreat to when the noise and activity become too much. My children remind me that we have a playhouse at the edge of the backyard. And almost automatically, I think, "Hmm, I could probalby still get wi-fi there." I am a paradox.

But frantic pace and constant availability zaps me even more in real life. I asked a friend yesterday for the phone number of a mutual friend. She sent it and asked if I'd ever heard their musical answering machine message. I replied that I'd never called her. She's a very close friend. We correspond nearly daily. I love the sound of her voice and could sit for hours in real life and just listen to her talk. I love when she has time to share a converation with me. She's called me a couple times. But I've never called. Still haven't. Because in real life, it takes a huge effort for me to dial the phone. The older I get, the less I like to shatter silence with my own voice, the less I want to intrude on someone else's silence.

When I was little, people thought I was pouting or moody. I will never forget the day--I must have been around nine--when someone asked why I was so grumpy within earshot of my grandfather. He took one look at me and said, "She's not grumpy; she's pensive." It is forever inked in my memory. Understanding. He understood that I was not moody or aloof or even shy. I was just thinking. I need quiet. I need deep, face-to-face connections.If I have a conversation, I'd prefer for it to be a slow, thoughtful one. I need fresh air and sunshine. I need space to think. I don't think quickly.

And then, I also need space to do. To work with my hands. To ink out a thought. to capture an image. Wide open space to make connections to my Creator within my own soul and spirit with before I can make sense of anything else.

I put up two prayer requests this week for boys not unlike my own. Indeed, one of them played soccer with my eldest. I can't pray for them and for their families without feeling an overwhelming tug of empathy. And an overwhelming urge to hold my children. (At the same time, though, I'm compelled to bring their intentions to as many people as possible and I'm grateful this medium allows me to do that.) Life is full and rich and joyous and sad. And we need margins to make sense of it all, don't we? And life is short. I'd prefer not to waste a single moment of it.

When I was on vacation (ah, see? there's Disney again), my time online was naturally limited. I spent a few minutes a day (fewer than fifteen) uploading pictures so that our families could follow our fun on Facebook. It was just the right amount of time for that kind of connecting. And then, I spent hours and hours out of doors, holding my little one, listening carefully to the others, giving full time and undivided attention to the here and now. Despite the noise and color and crowds of where I was, it was a peaceful way to live. Certainly all of life isn't a vacation and I can't expect to come home and act as if I'm living in a resort villa, but I think I can impose upon myself some of the same expectations for limits here and wide open spaces there.

God is in the margins. 

I'm not logging off  forever. I'll likely be back tomorrow. Because I need to write. I need to take  pictures. I need to put it all together and make sense of it for myself. And for some reason, I'm am compelled to share it with you. Gosh, I'm grateful you pause with me. And I do hope that this little corner of my world can be a quiet respite for you. Because really, I'm all about the quiet. 

 

Thinking Big Thoughts with Young People

I started a post yesterday morning. I wrote rapidly and with passion, all about text messages and mean girls and life and death and the drama we create versus the reality God intends for us to live. After days of sitting with Rachael, waiting while her father was dying, Mary Beth was at home at our dining room table, trying to wrap her brain around a math lesson. Her cell phone, her iPod, and her computer were fully awake beside her. Normally, we don't allow electronics during school hours, except for academic uses. But Rachael had been texting pretty much all of the previous 24 hours and I was keeping a careful watch as girls rallied around her, some of them in person, some from miles away via social media. Suddenly, there was silence. In the silence of those morning hours, we all knew that Rachael's dad was drawing his last breath.

I tried to upload my post to Typepad. Typepad would have none of it. It disappeared into cyberspace. I quickly figured that was probably for the best and moved on to the next thing. I gathered my little girls on the couch and read Little Red Riding Hood. Just as the woodsman released the grandmother and little girl from their canine tomb, Mary Beth came toward me, laptop in hand. Rachael's brother had updated his Facebook status with a tribute to his father. There was his birthdate and his death date.

In a few moments, Mary Beth was at Rachael's house.

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur. I had seen the very best of social media and electronic communication. And then I saw human touch, unafraid, in hard places, loving with wholehearted generosity. I couldn't be prouder of my daughter and the girls with whom she dances. They were courageous examples of grace and compassion and their witness humbles me.

At home, while Mary Beth stayed with Rachael, we found ourselves on a bit of a rabbit trail. This post had us researching child slavery in Africa. Nicky, already raw from the past few days of watching and waiting with Rachael, was pushed to brink of emotional meltdown. This was just too much! Too much suffering. 

And yet. And yet he woke this morning wanting to know more about poverty in Africa. More about what Jesus calls us to do. More about the children. So, I showed him this article, about living for Jesus among the poor, about being young and acting with wisdom and grace and compassion and wholehearted generosity. And that, of course, led to Kisses from Katie (do watch the video on the Amazon page). 

Nicholas read the free Kindle sample to me this morning while I knit my Katie's sweater. (Yay! we made it to the sleeves!). Then, we downloaded the rest to read to each other a bit at a time. (I add a caveat here: I don't know if this book is inappropriate for children. I've sent a quick note to a friend who read an advance copy and I'm not going any further with Nicholas until I hear from her. I'll update here if there is inappropriate content.)

{the expression on his face as he reads about a sick, dirty, starving little girl the same age as his littlest sister...}

So that's about it here today. It's raining. Everyone who can read is off in a corner somewhere reading. Karoline and Sarah have overtaken the sunroom and turned it into a pancake restaurant of some sort. I'm getting ready to go get Rachael so she can hang out here for awhile before dance. 

And we're thinking. About big things. About suffering and loss and God's generous grace. About what it is to truly be Christ to one another.

{For more knitting and reading, visit Ginny today.}

Intentional Weekend: Healing

I had planned to go to Pennsylvania this weekend. Three of the boys have soccer games there. We were going to make a family trip of it. But something tugged at me. At the last minute, Mike and I decided I'd stay home with the girls.

We talked as he packed. "I feel like the world has kicked me around in the last month," I remarked to him. "It has," he said, his eyes meeting mine, "and that makes me so sad."

It wasn't just me though; it was my girls. In a very short period of time, those tender-hearted girls have seen more illness and death and disappointment and loss than a strong, healthy adult could bear. The world was kicking them around, too.

I resolved to take this weekend and teach them, show them, how a woman of faith responds to grief, how to heal with grace. I would walk through this with them. Together, we'd heal.

It helps to have a place, a place where we go when our hearts are singing with joy, a place where we go to share with friends, a place where we go when the world knocks us around and we need to heal. Our place is a woodland place. It changes with the seasons. It gets battered by the world sometimes and creaks and is brown and gray. It changes with time, usually slowly, but sometimes drastically. Still, it is familiar, and beautiful, and we are well accustomed to seeing God present there. 

Some families have a beach, a place to gather there to celebrate glorious moments, to share with friends, to make a trip and turn a bad day around. We have a creek (or is it a river?), big old trees, and springtime's most generous flower show. We have rocks to skip across the water and skies so blue they beg to be painted.

This was a place to sit on a blanket and just wait until she talked. Just listen as it all came bubbling out. When it hurts so much and the world feels like it's crushing, come away, girlfriends, to a place where you can clear your head and open your heart, a place where He beats down on you like warm sunshine and you feel grace poured into your soul.

We talked about death, about loss, about hard knocks, about that amazing tree, clearly perched precipitously, commanding our attention in its infirmity. Would it be here next time? Or would it be the newest "bridge tree," stretched across the river, changing currents, inviting children to scamper across its back? 

Nothing stays the same.

 Babies grow into "little big girls." And little girls face big girl hurts.

 Big girls?  Well, sometimes in the life a girl on the brink of womanhood the universe offers an entire curriculum on loss all at once. And it hurts so much that every woman close enough to know can scarcely breathe in the watching.

Take a deep, breath , my girls, after you've had your big cry. Look around. See? He's here. He has a plan for your life. A good plan. And this --all of this-- is part of the plan. Be watchful with Him. Be watchful for Him. Even now, He sends tender mercies, sweet moments of joy. Moments, that wouldn't have been possible without the pain.

We took our fill of fresh air and sunshine. We stayed long and came home late. We feasted on good food and then we discovered a belated birthday present in the mail. 

Fabric!

So, we did something else that girls do when their hearts hurt and the universe has kicked them around. 

We created something beautiful for someone we love.

{{Psst, to my Girlies: I had the best day with you today.}}

Embracing Autumn

I didn't want to embrace autumn this year; didn't want let go of summertime. June and July were perfectly lovely. Just about the loveliest summer I can remember. We didn't go anywhere special. I actually missed my one chance to go to the beach. We mostly stayed home, taking just a couple of trips to Charlottesville, which is "home," too. We made memories here-- happy, happy memories. Good, good days.

August was not good. It began with an infection that left me sicker than I remember being in the last two decades. And then, it just bumped along some more--one in-real-life hit after another, each one surprising me more than the next. I sort of staggered through September, trying with all my might to recover my midsummer joy. 

With all my might.

September ended with a heaving sob. My might depleted. Joy eluded.

October dawned cold, blustery, brittle. We celebrate the feast of my favorite saint on October first. An old friend challenged me to look for roses. Roses in the October cold. "Please pick for me a rose from the heavenly garden and send it to me as a message of love."

The roses of midsummer have faded and fallen. I cannot gather their blooms and bring them into the heart of this home. Instead, I have to find the October roses. With the waning summer, I feel my idealism fading; I feel some longheld notions finally acknowledging defeat after years of fighting with all my might; I fully feel the reality of messy lives. And I see that I cannot , no matter how hard I try, create the perfect childhood and hold it safely for all my children. They will be hurt. They will hurt themselves. We will feel pain and there will be fading blooms and browning leaves.

It's time to embrace autumn. It's time to acknowledge that there is suffering, to let myself know it, meet its gaze, and accept it. Time to stop fighting change, stop denying that this, too, is a fallen world in need of a a Savior. Time to stop trying to play on through the pain. It's time to remember that pruning is painful, but ever so fruitful. It's time to recognize that perhaps my most important role as a teacher of my children is to teach them how to greet the hurt and then to carry on in faith.

The breeze blows and lifts my chin; it's time to look up from the rain-sodden, trampled underbrush of late summer's waning blooms and to see His glory above me. It's time to know that it's not about my might.

It never was.

I see that now.

The joy of the summer was never of my making; it was the fruit of His grace. He waits for me, watching patiently, asking me to trust Him with this new season of life. 

"God is good," the Spirit whispers through the gathering storm, the rustling, autumn-gloried leaves, "all the time."

 

Yarn Along on the Feast of the Triumph of the Cross

I have a new book to share today, a perfect book for this feast. The Queen and the Cats is the the story of St. Helena of Constantinople, who traveled to the Holy Land in 326 and supervised the excavation of the land where Jesus was buried. She is said to have found the cross on which Jesus died. 

This sweetly illustrated book, with large, easy-to-read font, tells St. Helena's tale through the eyes of a little girl who was in Cyprus when Queen Helena came to visit and brought a piece of the holy cross. The churches were overrun with vipers and it was the queen who provided a solution to the snake problem and made it safe to worship in the churches and monasteries once more.

The author wrote me this morning and offered this sweet deal: We’re offering an incentive to anyone who buys the book in the next three days (Tuesday, September 13, Wednesday, September 14 & Thursday, September 15^th)! If they buy The Queen & the Cats in either format, email book@xistpublishing.com with your receipt and we’ll send a downloadable .pdf line-art coloring book version of the book. Buy both editions, (or multiple copies!) and we’ll also mail a postcard icon of Saint Helena. 

As for other yarns, knitting is painfully slow. The yellow tiny tea leaves is finished through the body but still needs a button band and sleeves. The red ruffle scarf is inching ever so slowly to that huge increase row where I'll go from 200 stitches to 600!. No chance I'm going to hit birthday deadlines. Oh, well.

 

 God our Father, in obedience to you, your only Son accepted death on the cross for the salvation of mankind. We acknowledge the mystery of the cross on earth. May we receive the gift of redemption in heaven. We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Go visit Ginny for more yarns of both kinds. See you there!