Pick Up Stix

Yesterday, we had a chapel service for our students; our much-loved speaker chose the topic of "Belief in God's Love for You" is the most important thing to know in the walk of faith. I sat in the back and thought of how the message was being received by the students. I saw one student who I know struggles with acceptance of this idea; one student who could easily exchange this sentiment for what the world offers; one student who believes this with all her heart; one student who will wait for the evidence; many students who willingly accept this message because they have been lovingly taught it all their lives. Whether they will believe later is the big question.

I thought about my class a couple hours later and how we would be looking at Lord Byron's poetry. The students then are eager to talk about other ideas, how the poetry reflects their love lives (or lack thereof), and I willingly stretch their minds wide to encompass new perspectives.

I remember when I was in college at Evangel University. I was so confused and frustrated by the world in chapel and the world in the classroom. The first was typlified by devotional response, by winnowing of misbeliefs, bad values, wrong perceptions. The second, which I preferred more, was  about "All truth is God's truth no matter where it is found." They clashed terribly for me, and I had a bit of a breakdown in my second year there. One week found me crying in my room for about three days straight. I had just read Letters from the Earth by Mark Twain. I confided in no one; no counsel was given or sought. I was just simply miserable in my inability to reconcile, approach, or disavow.

The message at my high school's chapel was good, like a breath of fresh air really. But, I sat in the back and wondered about the divide, between devotional belief and cognitive acceptance. I think it's like the old game of Pick-up Stix. You try to hold onto one belief (one stick) and take care of it, without moving anything else. When you can pick up a stick successfully, you get to progress until a stick gets moved in the process and you have to sit out. I think at times, we are like that with faith; we believe we must cognitively accept at least one thing without stirring up other questions / doubts. And, yes, while we can do that for a bit,  the pile of sticks will eventually move. There is no shame in it. No reason to sit out. It's just the reality of the difficult cognitive acceptance of the devotional aspects of faith.

To that end, I simply pray that my students can 1) accept that sticks of faith do indeed move; 2) choose to know that God is love and choose to experience it.  Amen.

Dave Ramsey, one

My husband and I went to Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University at our church last night. We couldn't find a heckling place in the rear so we sat on the front row. I watched my husband as he doubted some of the financial information given. I wanted to be an admirable, knowledgeable rebel like him; however, my ignorance kept me silent. We weren't sure why we were there since my husband is trained in sound financial principles and practices them. He said that the information would be so basic for him that it would be like teaching me, an English teacher, how to spell cat. During Ramsey's videotaped presentation, though, we caught each other laughing at his jokes and agreeing to his general principles. When Ramsey said that most families don't talk about money, we looked at each other and snickered -- my husband's family would tell you how much their spit cost if they could put a price tag on it. Then, they would only spit half as much to save a dime or two. Money is a focus and a fixation. It's a hobby. All chat and all deep conversations trickle back to the comforting sounds of cha-ching.

We split up into small groups, and like an addiction meeting, we said our names and why we were there. I said I was an ignorant English major. My husband said he was there to support me and to represent the Evil Industry (banking). That latter admittance commanded respect and people began asking questions of him. Our group leader, a longtime friend, asked him questions too. He even got to use his cute little sense of humor on the group.

Next week, I can't attend since I will be at a conference. But, my husband said that he thinks he will attend without me afterall despite an earlier declaration to stay home.

:)

A trail runs through it

We have a trail which runs through our town which connects to a trail which runs through our state. And, although we have no mountains, no ocean, no recreational waterside to speak of, this trail does a body and spirit good. Makes one stay around.

I dropped my son off at indoor soccer yesterday evening and pulled into a nearby trail parking lot. Secured the van, keys, shoestrings, calf muscles by stretching, and began the jog. Invariably, the desire to stop in the first mile hit me. Legs felt heavy; all my weight of the world required a rest. The choice to walk or stop flitted in my mind, landing on a big branch to sing a poignant song. But, the one miler must scare it away, knowing that the two miler will obtain a comfortable pace. The end-runner, the one who makes it to the final finishing place, will be grateful for that one-miler who made a decision to keep going, to keep going, to work the kinks out of the body and mind in order to keep going and succeed.

Finishing the race is biblical. God tells us to finish the race we have started: endurance, perseverance, obedience to the call to begin are valued traits to develop.

I like running because it tests my resolve like that; it's a parallel activity.  I like our trail because of the trees, the rustles in the side brush, the faces of those I pass who are working spiritual and physical matters out. At times there are unexpected surprises -- like a bluebird landing nearby bright in a gray day; like a friend one passes; like a bench which offers a place for prayers or curses; like a sudden hail storm; like memories of talks, walks, runs, perseverance, process.

I don't know where I would be today if there wasn't a trail which runs through our town.

Chia to you too

Going green. Leaves sticking all out of my shopping cart. Round fruit of multiple variety. I'm acting the part of an Ozark hippi, an Ozark goodfarmer grower, a liberal in my collegetown. When I arrive home, I wonder what will be the effects of the nutrient rush: less wrinkles, immediate radiance, erased colesterol, flatulence, angry boys, rotten vegetables forgotten in the lower tray. Yet, there they are -- my year's hopes to eat well, live longer, look good, and repair irreparable junk food damage.

Half an hour later, my son drinks the concocted, grocery-result smoothie with discretely pureed spinach -- and he asks for another glass! He's the most wonderful teenager in the world! I know you must have such a miraculous recipe, and here it is:

A handful of spinach leaves
About 1/2 cup of fruit juice
About 3/4 cup of frozen blueberries
One banana
A tablespoon of Chia seeds (which I didn't know existed until yesterday)
3/4 cup of fozen strawberries

Delightful, discrete. Aren't I the famer market's connoisseur; the smug natural foods shopper; the conscientious mother; the woman aging into her 70's and 80's on the shimmering hem of Omega 3?

Well. Next week I return to the busy schedule which makes vegetables rot in the lower tray. I will try to overcome with spinach leaves and blueberry visions still dancing in my head, arteries, brain connections => at least, at least, until the end of the month.

Best wishes on your healthy endeavors.

Snow-locked

Yes, Jack London wouldn't think it's that bad at all. I should remove my flowery robe, dress in thickness, and go outside to tromp. The wind isn't even whistling; wolves from an upper NW pack have not even descended into my state. The one to three mountain lions spotted in rural areas do not like this university town. A malicious deer with a weaponry rack only exists in the imagination of a city-slicker.

It's tame. Each sequestered back yard here might have a cat's trail, or a squirrel's brush, or a dog's plow marking the snowscape. Yesterday, I saw one terrified deer bounding into our yard and over the neighbor's fence, marking wide leaps of horror. Yet no danger exists.

I could go outside and walk off this fancy cabin malaise. When I was younger, I always did just that, dressing in old green coveralls and an old Chiefs hat, some old tennis shoes, some old black work gloves. I would dodge the heat wave from Mom's wood stove. I would dodge the loudness of Dad's television. I would dodge getting involved in the third book of the day. The cold air would hit; the dog would fall in behind; freedom came from striding down the hill, past the pond not quite safe for skating, past the summer's blackberry bushes, past the Mulberry playhouse tree with the old teakettle swinging coldly from a branch. Finally, into the back acreage; finally down the steep hill where the quartz rock could always sparkle to be found. Down to the secret pond, surrounded by cedar, and away from everything.

I never was not greeted graciously in the winter-time outside. Some sort of beauty awaited. Some sort of treat presented itself. Some type of freedom assented inside my spirit.

I would focus on small things, and they would focus back, like two aliens studying each other's habits; two aliens living under each others' noses until one says, "Hello" and the other says, "Finally!"

Prayer and love, or release from loneliness, or spiritual un-chokedness would always happen. In the winter-time, the desperation for such would be extreme. In the winter-time, such outlines inside and outside just occurred. The snow on the branches gave me pause; the greyish ice on the spring-fed pond made me think; the sound of the branches spoke. Wow, I'm a bit crazy like Thoreau and Wordsworth themselves! Yet when a country girl needed a vacation which was never taken otherwise because of money, she could find it on the land -- the Ozarkian land especially. I don't know what the crazed city kids did, and for them, I feel sympathy.

When walking back up the steep, rocky hill towards our small house, I would be ready for it again. Another night of television or books and thick wood heat. Another cancellation of school or basketball practice. Another grapple with closeness, sounds and silence.

I think I must try to walk today outside. I think I will just be one of those neighborhood women who walk to shape up. I think I must go find a creek bed too if possible.

Amen and amen.

Rain-splashed

Faith is such a crazy thing! Why is it? Or, do I undoubtedly make it crazy with my own offbalance? It could be a peaceful calm lake phenomena, but then the fish and turtles and snakes do lurk beneath, don't they? I guess that 'crazy' faith is just the human experience of it if one attempts to understand, commit, explain, impart its dimensions. Who can filter God? Tame the Spirit? Know and interpret all? No one. We have clues, messages, yes, yes, but even those are nebulous.

However, the morning called me to clearly respond to God due to some inner conflicts. It's crazy when faith seems muddy, happenchance, tilted, yet at times the response needs to be completely forthright as if one is faced with the most sensory (yet comfortable) Thing possible. God asking something of one, me, due to my straightforward human-woman need that needs his intervention.

So out the door into the rain-splashed morning I went anticipating. Running shoes, old paint-dropped sweats, New Orleans T-shirt, pony-tail, hat were acceptable worship material. I followed the old trail, around the lake estates where the geese fly, across the busy road where the morning commuters fly, to a street where it's happened before necessarily. I remember that time God told me to let go of a huge globe of fear and to recommit: from toes to hair, from bones to heart, bit by bit, both to Belief and to husband and to self and to others. It felt good again to release and reorient.

I walked back into the house doubting still, but yet knowingly committed, despite any where my adventurous mind takes me, or any where my body goes. I am committed and that's the clarity that is essential.

Enunciation

The big picture window to my right showcases it, reveals how many can fit into one frame. It shows how they swirl prettily to experience their fall, their purpose, their trek. If I were a measurement-taker, perhaps there would be per square foot, about 100, but it would be wrong and hard to contain their flailing merriment before they become bound to the ground. The ground is changing because of them. Life is becoming simple and quiet. I think of the Ingalls in the Big Woods, or Robert upon the sleigh before the woods. The ground holds their effort, holds their purpose, restores them during another season. The ground is becoming them, and they the ground. I would like to have a hat on and walk amongst them. The loveliest woods walks I've taken have been within their lacy friendliness and musical descension. It's right then to think about the day of death because living has remitted its best to you, its natural result of original creation, its amazing moist ingenious cycle of life. Our bald cypress tree now has a lining on its arms to enunciate itself to the looker. The dried monarda pods have a flaky stocking cap.

Slowly, surely, we open for the snow, all of us affected. We can think clearly of the worse now, death, because life has given us her best and shows us deep and lasting beauty.

It's early. The cats have been served. The children lie in bed. I need to crack my big literary research guide book soon. But, one moment to breathe and yawn before it all begins. One moment to think about walking in the footsteps of the One who rose, breathed and exhaled life and love, during the dawn, or noonday, or latenight.

My walk is often replete with pauses where I observe how others are walking. Some walk tightly with lips pursed, carefully outlining their feet into His marks, fearful of looking around. Some walk in circles. Some walk meanderingly, feeding gulls, picking shells, pulling pods from sea oats. Some, I've known, walk liltingly, with a smile, and a regard for those who suffer along the way. Others walk with a spirit and a bravery and a sense of adventure and humor. Still others walk in various combinations.

It's interesting how we all walk once we've made the choice. I find myself, though, hearing some of these walkers bemoan how we don't all do the same strut. I myself become tired of the pursed lip, fearful type, who often look up to scorn or reject. Or, the loud and yelling ones who attack, in the name of God, those who want to walk upon the sands too.

It's often difficult to focus upon His marks in the sand while the winds-of-walks swirl around you. This morning, I rededicate my focus, my loyalty and love, toward the reason, toward His footsteps and ultimately to Him. He knows my walk and willed it. I should trust His design. I will walk with a leap and a skip and a pirouette and a softshoeshuffle in confident jubilant trust, regardless of what others think. I will go toward Him the best that I can, upon the sands, following my Master and Friend, following faithfully. Amen.

Mulberry and friends

It must have been the recent birthday. Perhaps it's Alzheimer's setting in (today, my daughter had to write a check from her account for both our driver license renewals as I forgot my checkbook. A sign of things to come, I told her, get ready, defend your senseless mamma.) But, old things are coming back to me, like the feelings of the sudden death of my young boyfriend, encountered again per last entry.

And just recently Mom reminded me that I liked to climb things as a girl. Ah yes, trees in particular. But instead of climbing them just to conquer them, it was best to go live up in them, for hours at a time. The ultimate was our mulberry wide-branched tree, with an old teapot hung up in the "kitchen". When the cows walked under, oh that was a mighty giggly treat of twig aimin'. There were flowers and fruit and lots of rooms to scoot or climb to in the mulberry. But, mainly, it was nice to hang out in the tree and just think. There was an elm not too far away. A stately walnut with ladder branches. An oak with enchanting seeds. I still remember them well and sitting in their branches, and no one knew where I was. Then I'd hear the yellow ford truck horn honk three times for lunch or supper or town. The dog waiting below and I'd head on up to the house.

But the wind is lovely up high, and you're like a bird almost, and you make squirrels curious, and the tv wasn't blaring so Dad could hear it. And there were no other annoying sounds like the water faucet continually dripping. But the sounds were pretty and relaxing, and I wished to not be human and to be something more like a fairy.

I semi-forgot all of this; but, when I went to Europe two years ago, I kept exclaiming to people how the climbing of things was one of the best part of the tours. Comes back somehow.

I'm going to climb a tree before too long, and if my bones permit, just sit and think. That would be lovely.

Little Twirler Grandma

My mother was nervous and dropped her baton at least three times during the Saturday night family talent show. It was the talking part, she kept saying afterwards, that had her nerves all in a bundle and fingers all a-fumble. But, she kept twirling and dropping while Dad kept repeating "Go Tell it On the Mountain" on his guitar. We all watched and ahhhed during the waist twirl or the half catch. She ended in true majorette form with her knee up and her baton crooked. Her earlier words had rendered us even more sentimental as she shyly spoke about how she treasured us, all of us. We cheered wildly afterwards. I have it on tape, but I think it's too sacred for YouTube.

:)

Hope you all had a Merry Christmas!!