Brennan Manning (April 27, 1934 – April 12, 2013)

“My deepest awareness of myself is that I am deeply loved by Jesus Christ and I have done nothing to earn it or deserve it.”

It is hard to remember who I was when Brennan Manning came into my life.  I know I was pregnant with our fifth child, and I know where we went to church. I can recall the messages about effective parenting and women's roles and the Right Way to Do Everything.  I can almost remember the recoil in my soul on Sunday mornings, and  I know well the work we've done to unravel the falsehoods from that season.

“To live by grace means to acknowledge my whole life story, the light side and the dark. In admitting my shadow side I learn who I am and what God's grace means.”

Into this rich soil Brennan Manning was planted.  I could digress into the value of manure to help seeds grow, but let's not get crass.  Manning's message of Christ and His grace was gruffly honest; it was not about neat and tidy living, and it was fresh air and clean water and sweet music to my weary heart.  Brennan Manning's way of speaking of God's love for His children could very well have saved my life.

“In a futile attempt to erase our past, we deprive the community of our healing gift. If we conceal our wounds out of fear and shame, our inner darkness can neither be illuminated nor become a light for others.” 

And so we named our baby Brennan.

"There is a beautiful transparency to honest disciples who never wear a false face and do not pretend to be anything but who they are.”

And this last Friday, Brennan Manning found his eternal rest, at last.  Rest in Peace, kind sir.  Thank you for speaking to a weary and earnest mother; God used you to breathe the words of grace back into her heart.

“I want neither a terrorist spirituality that keeps me in a perpetual state of fright about being in right relationship with my heavenly Father nor a sappy spirituality that portrays God as such a benign teddy bear that there is no aberrant behavior or desire of mine that he will not condone. I want a relationship with the Abba of Jesus, who is infinitely compassionate with my brokenness and at the same time an awesome, incomprehensible, and unwieldy Mystery."

                        

Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or not.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

~ Mary Oliver ~

From The Leaf and the Cloud: A Poem

A bouquet of unmerited favor

It all started with a trip out to the front yard, where our terraced flower beds are showing the years of neglect we have thrust upon them.  Weeding had started over spring break, but the heaps of pulled weeds barely began what needs to happen for things to be made right.  It's daunting, and like many daunting things in my life, I can find a hundred unnecessary things to do in the name of not doing the daunting ones.

But yesterday I knew I could at least survey the reality.  Call it a mess.  Figure out a plan.  I tricked myself into going out front with the idea that I didn't actually need to do anything. I could just look around, agree that it is a mess, plan out a few weeks of concentrated work, and be done for the day.  Plan I can do.

 






Before I even came around the corner, I could see the frilled edges of the first purple iris, flapping in the wild winds, rich layers of color bouncing and dancing and sparkling.  Iris are the flowers of my childhood front walkway. They are a reminder of my friend Alison.  They are so beautiful.  And even in my yard, they are bold and strong and healthy, touting their royal purple in the midst of weeds and crummy soil.

The rosemary is blooming and curling and growing strong in Madelaine's herb patch.  I played many a holiday hide and seek game in the Rogers' rosemary bushes.  My apologies to those brave and hardy plants, but those memories are sweet and the fragrance so very welcome.  The branches of our much smaller plants are curled and whimsical and dotted with blue flowers.  They are healthy and spreading and very much at home.

As I went from corner to corner, surveying the scene, flowers were pushing forth in the midst of the weeds, stronger than last year, dotted with color, waving bravely in the wind.  They were not daunted by their surroundings.  They were beautiful.

 

I went back inside to get some clippers so I could gather the first fruits of this neglected garden into a bouquet, a bouquet of unmerited favor.  I expected a mess, I braced myself for the results of months and years of having better things to do.  Instead I came in with my arms full of color and fragrance and joy.

I keep passing the bouquet, watching it catch the light as it arcs across the kitchen windows.  The colors and textures change with the hours, and the abundance of it all just amazes me. 

From the archives: Author birthday extravaganza

Today is the birthday of three favorite authors:  Madeleine L'Engle, C.S. Lewis and Louisa May Alcott.  In honor of their birthday, I have listed some favorite quotes and books and one movie.

The Insistence of Chronology

During our mortal lives, however, chronos is not merely illusion. My body aging is aging according to human chronology, not nucleon or galactic chronology. My knees creak. My vision is variable. My energy span is shorter than I think it ought to be. There is nothing I can do to stop the passage of this kind of time in which we human beings are set. I can work with it rather than against it, but I cannot stop it. I do not like what it is doing to my body. If I live as long as many of my forebears, these outward diminishments will get worse, not better. But these are the outward signs of chronology, and there is an other Madeleine who is untouched by them, the part of me that lives forever in kairos and bears God's image.

From Glimpses of Grace: Daily Thoughts and Reflections of Madeleine L'Engle

But the great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love for us does not.  It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and, therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him. 

From Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and fall into a vortex, as she expressed it, writing way at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace.

From Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Favorite books by these authors:

 

(worthy of note:  we love the movie of The Inheritance, but the book didn't do it for us.  The father in the movie is a great character, and he is fabulously quotable.)

Last year's meme post in honor of Lewis, L'Engle and Alcott.

Psalm 8

 O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is Your name in all the earth,

You have set your glory above the heavens.

From the lips of children and infants

You have ordained praise because of Your enemies,

to silence the foe and the avenger.

When I consider Your heavens,

the work of Your fingers,

the moon and the stars,

which You have set in place,

what is man that You are mindful of him,

the son of man that you care for him?

You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings

and crowned him with glory and honor.

You made him ruler over the works of Your hands; 

You put everything under his feet:

all flocks and herds,

and the beasts of the field,

the birds of the air,

and the fish of the sea,

all that swim the paths of the seas.

O Lord, our Lord,

how majestic is Your name in all the earth.

 

Sabbath poem

1989

VIII

One day I walked imagining

What work I might do here,

The place, once dark, made clear

By work and thought, my managing, 

The world thus made more dear.

I walked and dreamed, the sun in clouds,

Dreamer and day at odds.

The world in its great mystery

Was hidden by my dream.

Today I make no claim; 

I dream of what is here, the tree

Beside the falling stream,

The stone, the light upon the stone; 

And day and dream are one.

Change is in the air

As we settle into the routines of school, change is settling in on branch and leaf. Breezes blow, and the slant of shadows speaks to the coming dark. I love autumn, the cooler temperatures and the smell of moist earth. I come alive as the temperatures drop, although after a mere twenty-four years in this county I have almost acclimated to our searing summer temperatures. The rain cannot come soon enough, as the dirt road along our fence sends up billows of dust whenever cars drive by, and the pond down the hill is showing signs of longing.

   photo credit: Isaiah Eyre, wedding photographer extraordinaire

But change is more than a weather pattern. With a son newly married, the fabric of our family has changed. It feels shrunk down as my ready to dance boy has become a fine man, living on his own with the woman of his dreams. He takes with him a volume of noise unmatched by any others on this little hillside, and our house feels bittersweetly larger in his absence. But we also feel expanded to include this beautiful, eyes sparkling woman who loves my son with a passion that inspires me and makes me laugh with joy. She loves adventure, she works hard, and she brings beauty with her wherever she goes.  Like a tailored suit, made just for us, she fits into our inner circle with an ease and grace that feels perfect.

Change never seems to come single file, and at church we must come to grips with the fact that our rector is retiring.  This fantastic man who met us in hospital halls to pray for Mom, even though the weird smells and the aura of disease were unpleasant for him.  He carried the Eucharist to her bedside, and he made me promise that I would call him, no matter the time, when Mom's time on earth was done.  He met us where we were, disaffected Baptists, and brought with him the Book of Common Prayer, the wine and the wafer, the liturgy of our childhoods.  And now we have returned to those roots, to what many see as a denomination fallen away from the truth.  I see our church differently, though.  It is a place where we can be without words and still pray prayers that have stood the test of time, a place where the sermon shares equal time with the Eucharist, where confession and the passing of the peace bond us together.  We have a community that exhibits grace and an eagerness to grow in their faith. 

 A few weeks ago Claire was baptized and we stood in front of our congregation as these words were read:

Will you who witness these vows do all in your
power to support Claire in her life in Christ?

And we all boldly responded "We will!"

Claire responded to questions with a quiver in her voice, and our rector's voice broke as he continued the liturgy.  It was a tender ceremony.  Not only was Claire surrounded by all her siblings, her new sister-in-law, and her dear friends, she was embraced into a community of faith.  She knows that these are her people, that she is part of the membership.  

Over the last eighteen months, I have thought a lot about how hard it can be to be a young person at this time in our history.  The stress feels very different, the isolation and pressure and uncertainty seems much deeper. That Sunday in church, gratitude welled up inside of me as I realized that my daughter belongs to these faithful people.  Times are changing, a new rector will be here November 1st, but she is a part of the family.  At some point she may be called to go it alone, to wander in the wilderness, but she knows she belongs to the membership and that they belong to her.

And we know that, too, which helps us as we fidget in the changing confines of our world.  We are not alone. 

Second breakfast

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.  Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

75 years ago today The Hobbit was published for the very first time.  We will be celebrating by eating second breakfast and reading (at least) chapter 9 and probably listening to Howard Shore's music throughout the day.

My favorite line from the book, at least for this current read through, is in Chapter 5: Riddles in the Dark:

"...suddenly his hand met what felt like a tiny ring of cold metal lying on the floor of the tunnel.  It was a turning point in his career, but he did not know it."

How many times do we have significant moments without even knowing it?  Like in 1981 when I met a young man with a head of blonde curls and piercing blue eyes. Thirty-one years later, twenty-six years of marriage later, it is clear that was a significant meeting!  And Bilbo's happening upon the ring is only the beginning of many favorite tales to come.

We're eagerly awaiting the movie.  Have you seen the trailer yet?  It looks terrific.  Mr. Thornton will be there, as will Dr. Watson.  Cannot wait!

I better get some scones in the oven and get the cocoa started.  The time for elevensies is quickly approaching.

** Added later **

The meal was delicious and the dwarves escaped in barrels thanks to the clever Mr. Baggins.  Sophie was disappointed that no one dropped any bacon, but our flaky scones did allow for a bite or two for her to snack on.

Someone else was disappointed to miss the bacon, but happy to enjoy the respite from a harried school day.  Thanks for coming home for lunch, m'dear!

Remember Me

 "Remember me," he said, "is what Jesus asked of us. 'Do this to remember me.' We think about remembering as looking back on times past, a nostalgic recollection of something has gone now. But remember is also the opposite of dismember. When something has been broken apart, dismembered, we look at the broken pieces and remember how it used to be, and put it back together, make it whole again...."

Remember Me, the next in the Hawk and the Dove series, by Penelope Wilcock

A sister's birthday

My sister died on August 28th in 1993, when I was knee deep in babies and unable to cry for fear I would never stop.  That  September 3rd we sat in the dark wood sanctuary where I had been a bridesmaid, and we said goodbye to Liz.  Beautiful, only thirty-five, a single mother, my only sibling and my mother's best friend.  My voice cracked as I spoke, and my parents, divorced since 1964, held hands in the second row on the right.  My mother wore an ivory dress, in defiance of death's norms, and my father reassured her when one of the speakers kept talking:  "He was driving the boat, Jean.  Let him talk."  My father was at his best that day.  Baby Rex was there, in the arms of our friend Julie, singing out audacious hope, full of life and the future, our own bit of bravado on a dark day.

Maybe it is because I was unable to cry in those early days.  Maybe I am just cracked...or cracked open.  But I cry on these days of remembrance.  Yesterday would have been Liz's 55th birthday. I was cleaning out my recipe boxes and binders, trying to make sense of what I have been stuffing in there willy nilly, and I came across Liz's handwriting.  There she was, mingled with Mom and Natalie, with the yeast roll recipe in the hand of a grandmother I never met.  There was a fudge recipe from Dave...I haven't spoken to Dave in thirty years.  Memory lane drove by in a generic white binder.

But nothing is safe when your heart is cracked open.  There's the petal pink blow dryer that became mine that autumn of '93.  Mom's White Linen slaloms up from folds of silk scarves.  Cards stained by oil and vanilla evoke memories of holidays and of voices echoing around a kitchen whose address I cannot bring to mind.  I can't even clean the bathroom without thinking of Liz.  When I was very pregnant, she came to clean my house, but she only got through the bathroom; it was a very small bathroom.  She spent hours in there, door closed, little exacting sounds seeping out from under the door.  She oiled, she micro-scrubbed, she scraped and bleached and I have no idea what, and she made my bathroom the cleanest thing I have ever seen.  And  every time I clean the bathroom now, twenty-two years later, I wonder what in the heck was she doing in there all that time.  And it makes me smile, even as I bypass the deep cleaning for a book or a camera or a nap.

You'd think I would have thought of Liz as I watched my mom's life breath leave, but I think of her more in the company of a bottle of bleach or as I roll out fresh paint and make a marred wall a fresh canvas.

There was that other side to Liz, too.  Clean, organized, loyal she was, but also prankster, adventurer, dare-devil.  And so I thought of her Friday night as we crested the hill on Latrobe road.   I see a flying machine, a man with wings racing off to catch the golden waves of dusk, and I think, "It could have been Liz."  Given half a second, she would have jumped on that contraption and chased the fleeting light.  We parked and watched as the wings circled fields and parking lots, we could hear the engine hum, we could see the steering mechanism.  I just kept looking up, wishing for her broad smile, her reckless wave, her silhouette against the golden hue of the coming night.

It's been nineteen years, and yet I still look, still wish.  Maybe I am cracked, or cracked open.  Or maybe I am simply longing for eternity.

Moonrise Kingdom

 

A movie we can't stop talking about.

Twenty-two

I wouldn't stop the time, even if I could.

But I stare at those rosy cheeks and suddenly I can feel the warmth of her summer-kissed skin, and I smile because even then she had a book with her.

I can almost hear the giggles.  

Tonight I feel nostalgic.

Especially tonight, when my daughter has a birthday far away.     She will be home in a few weeks, to celebrate my birthday and Claire's baptism and to have some time to pet the dog and cook and read and rest at home, but it will be a quick week and then she is back for her senior year.   Twenty-two looks so beautiful on her.  And her sun-kissed skin and dimples and true smile are a gift of grace and hope.   Happy birthday, dear Madelaine.
You are loved!

Brother and sister

 

This is one of my favorite non-bride & groom pictures from my son's wedding.  She is so beautiful, he is so handsome, and I am so proud to be their mother. 

Photo credit:  Juliet

A bridal shower devotional

For a very dear young woman whose bridal shower was tonight:

If you google “Marriage Advice Quotes” you have to be prepared for a whole bunch of attempts at humor that bash the idea of a happily married couple, that assume without question that a long-lasting marriage with faithfulness to another is impossible. It is not impossible. It is hard work, but it is not impossible. And it is the most satisfying kind of hard work you can do! 

Marriage is an intensely personal thing. We know our husbands like no one else knows them: habits, moods, wishes, regrets, sins,giftedness…we get the inside look. And (here is the hard part): they know us better than anyone else does. The trick is to take that knowledge, the beautiful, the difficult, the work in progress, and to really LOVE them, to SERVE them, to be loved and served by them, to know the truth and be faithful because of and in spite of it all. It is a privilege and a responsibility to know someone so well, and to commit to being faithful to them “until death do us part.” 

One of my favorite passages in literature is a scene between a convict and a Catholic priest. It is from Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables. Jean Val Jean is a man who stole bread to feed his starving family, and he was caught, convicted and became a hardened criminal through his years in chains. He was convicted because of a crime committed out of love, but the hardship and the hatred that surrounded him changed him into a frightening man. 

When he is released from prison, he cannot find a place to sleep; his reputation as a criminal is made clear by the papers he is required to show at any inn in which he attempts to stay. Finally a priest allows him to stay in his home, he shows gracious hospitality without fear, he allows him to sleep near the cupboard where the silver is being stored for the night, and he shows no need to protect himself or his property. 

Jean Val Jean steals the silver, and escapes into the night, only to be caught and returned to the priest’s home. When he is brought back, the priest declares that the silver ValJean has stolen was a gift, and that the only problem the priest has is that his guest had not taken the candlesticks also. They are so valuable, and they could be of such use to him in his new life. The stunned police leave, and the priest is left alone with Jean Val Jean. This is what he says to him: 

“Jean Val Jean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God.” 

Now, I don’t think it is our job to BUY another’s soul, but I do think the priest is a beautiful example of love: he knows the criminal and his crimes, but he calls out to man man with love and it changes the man's life. We all need to be reminded of our true identity, our identity in Christ as new creatures, reminded of the fact that God calls us Beloved and that we are clothed in righteousness. It is so easy in the pressures and mess of life to forget who we really are. And as wives we have the privilege of seeing our husbands day in and day out, we really know them in their habits and behaviors, when those things reflect Christ-likeness and when they don’t. But even when they don’t, we know who God says they are. We can remind them of their real identity, LOVE them as the priest loved a hardened criminal, without fear or self-protection. 

1Corinthians 13, the chapter on love, says in verse 7: Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. May you give to one another a love that knows and bears and endures through it all.

My gift to you is these silver candlesticks. I love candlelight: it creates romance, it hides the laundry pile we didn’t quite finish, it softens wrinkles and bad hair days, it creates a soft glow that is beautiful. May the candlelight set the stage for romance, may it create soft light that radiates beauty. And let these candlesticks remind you of Jean Val Jean’s story: may you believe and hope for each other, calling out in each other your true identity as a Son and Daughter of the King. May that bring you great hope and an anticipation that He is doing a great work in each of you, in your marriage, and in your future together.