Nanny Turns 80

For Nanny, on the occasion of her 80th Birthday

On my 25th birthday, I asked for a quilt that my parents had kept on hand in our home growing up. It was a quilt of many colors and seemed to hold as much delight for me as any blanket could. I love the vibrant nature of the fabrics woven together and the weight of its stitching that seems to swallow me right up. When asking for the quilt, I had no idea the significance it held. My mom and I were having a conversation about it and I came to find that this particular quilt was one sewn of the remaining pieces of my Mamaw’s old dresses and aprons, Nanny’s similar remnants from her storehouses of dresses and aprons, and some of the pieces of my mother’s childhood wardrobe. Three generations of women in my family are held in this quilt. I’m certain that each piece holds its own memory but the thought of quilts and the women in my heritage, make me think of the Kentucky farm I’ve spent almost every Christmas. And when I think of the farm, I think of Nanny.

My Mom’s mom might be the best woman I know. Growing up in the North, kids thought my sister and I must be rich to have a Nanny care for us. I explained that nanny wasn’t a full-time babysitter, but grandma and so much more. As kids, my sister and I anticipated arriving at the quarter mile long driveway, unbuckling our seat belts to take in the scenes of the farm’s many acres, and most importantly, to prepare for Nanny’s greeting and big open hugs. We would snuggle her sweet smell and know that we would be nurtured, loved, and cared for, no matter the request. Her generosity knows no bounds and her open arms have no end. Just by watching I learned how to give unconditionally and without judgment, because it wasn’t just for us that she would put on  the best feast. On occasion, Nanny would use words to teach us, reminding us of the truth, or holding our hands as we learned to walk, always tempered with grace and with certain depth.

As an adult, I’ve come to understand that the sense of calm tenacity, comforting resolve, and unconditional love she extends are deeply rooted like the trees that line the farm and the stitching on that quilt I love. There have been storms and winds that have tempted to uproot her character or destroy her sense of being, but she has stood with dignity and character. The only reason, she would attest, is her unwavering, resolute faith in the one she has allowed to wage her relative wars. God has sewn in her soul the truth and depth on the cross, and it has created an incredible tapestry.

When I look at that quilt, now half folded atop my bed at home, I see a blanket stitched with grace and mercy in each piece. It is a reflection of God’s faithfulness in our family, to offer us a legacy of faith made manifest in the life of my Nanny. And when I lie under it, I am reminded that God is alive and the giver of such good gifts. One of His best gifts to our family, is Nanny.

Cincinnati City Retreat

Dogs barking, bird’s chirping around the bush out front, rain pouring with robotic certain sound.

I’m listening.

Sweet exclamations from 3 month old little lady downstairs, and my soul settled just a little deeper in the attic nest friends gracious let me dwell.

I’m listening.

City cars waft by and rumble in muddled mess just outside. The front porch swing sways and my soul is rocked from scattered to single-minded.

I’m listening.

Sirens swim past the cafe storefront and coffee slowly consumed brightens the day and my mind just right.

I’m listening.

In the quiet, truth replaces mis-truth and lies. The stillness gives rest in the place of anxious movement from one thing to the next, despite retreat to a city street.

I’m listening.

In the rest, grace replaces shame and the sometimes self-condemnation. Beauty and pleasure stand in front of the line to my soul, in a still, cozy café corner.

I’m listening.

In the stillness, certainty replaces insecurity and anxiety. The release of the details and reminder of life’s majors instead of brooding over life’s minors, gives freedom.

I’m listening.

And the voice of God says nothing but smiles and calms, He watches with delight to have captured another distracted mind and soul, once again.

Eyes Enchanted

http://www.tpwd.state.tx.us/state-parks/enchanted-rock

My eyes don’t see as they should. They are easily distracted and blinded too frequently. My eyes, they focus on places far from reality and blur what is sitting right in front of me. I put my reading glasses on to offer clarity to the images, curves, and lines, but sometimes they are tired and weary, neglecting to see the true picture.

I’ve been learning about Joseph lately. He spent little time, it seems, letting his vision get blurred. He focused his mind and disciplined his thoughts to watch closely and see clearly. The visions God offered him of the future of his life, were not quickly brought to fruition. He was made to wait for the dreams to be made clear and the path to be made known before him. Though sold into slavery, accused of adulterous behavior, and unjustly thrown into prison, he never acted with indignation or entitlement. His eyes were never diverted when he was forgotten but kept solidly to the presence of God and the task at hand. Joseph was seen by God. And the clear presence of the Lord in his success offered triumph, courage, integrity, and depth of hope in God’s visions for his future.

Last weekend I spent a couple hours hiking around a beautiful place God created in the hill country of Texas. I walked the 4 mile loop around the perimeter of the Enchanted Rock I had just climbed. I walked alone for those hours and occasionally it seemed as if the deeper I went into my thought, the deeper the creation around me blurred and I simply saw one foot in front of the other. There is less hope when we simply see feet moving when surrounded by such beauty. But when I stood with eyes wide open, expected to be moved by whatever my present vista, my heart stood next to the Lord’s and His hand was in mine. His eyes became mine and I saw everything just as I should.

Sometimes I triumph like Joseph. My eyes forget their true nature of distraction and blur, and I stand steadily in the promises of God. Lately I have not been patient like Joseph in waiting for the promises hoped for, to be fulfilled. I have not, like Joseph, been certain and secure in the hope of the Lord, but leaned on my own finite understanding of my mind and blinded vision.  This is where I do as my mother, and implore the help of others to see the fine print with much more clarity.

Prayer, with others, has made sharp the truth of God. That like Leah, in the saga of Leah and Rachel, or Hagar in the story of Abraham, I have been seen. There is nothing in my life, or yours, that does not pass by the perfect eyes of the Lord. His wisdom and sovereignty offers fulfillment of our visions and dreams at just the right time, in the most perfect way. He is not surprised by the pain we endure in the process of our waiting, but turns the tears that stain our eyes into nourishment for our souls and encouragement for others.

Today, I resolve to have my eyes checked and made new once more. I join God in the victory already given and I am united deeply with the clarity of God’s goodness right in front of me. I must choose to fall into the rest of His presence and close my eyes, that He might be my vision.

Cibolo: Part 2

This place redeems me

Sun kisses my freckle lined arms through thin branches and new green spring life, to smile at my spirit

Moss laden tree trunks sink deep into mucky river bed and suck nourishment from the river’s waters, and I, too, reach down deep

Fallen leaves line the once clear trail and the disguise begs me to question the covered up spaces inside

And when I perk up to the melodies and chirps of God’s song makers, I look to Him for a new melody to bellow over murky waters

This river and springtime spirit cover sweetly my questions of His presence, company, and promise. And He joins me on the trail to grip my shoulders like my mother and father do, and whisper softly friendship and comfort

This place redeems me because the challenge of its trail places perspective in my pace along its wooded, rocky path. The depth of the tree’s roots reaching wide and long remind me of the One whose arms spread wide and long with love for me and you. The only reason this place redeems me is because He has first.

And in this place, He redeems me over and over again.

Windstorms and Whispers

When I was a little girl we had an incredible wind storm in our hometown in Washington, just north of Seattle. It started the day Clinton was inaugurated. Our third grade class waited patiently in the dark for our parents to pick us up early from school and take us back to our equally silent houses. Terrifying winds can often spur angst and fear in the minds of little kids, and sometimes even in big kids too. But I had faith in my parents and those who had my care in mind. One of my favorite childhood memories came from those two days we lost power and watched the wind whip through our suburban, tree-lined neighborhood. Because it was January when the wind blew, it was quite chilly and we needed to stay warm at night. My dad built a fire in the fire place, my sister and I joined mom in gathering all the pillows and blankets from our beds. We pulled together candles and flashlights and all piled onto our plush pallet on the floor near the fire. My dad laid closest to the fire so that any stray sparks from the fire would not reach us in the night. Mom cuddled us and we were kids fast asleep on that blue living room carpet in their tender, and certain care.

Sometimes I wonder if and how God cares for us. Sometimes it’s hard to know if He sees us or is aware of what we need. Sometimes it seems the wind blows with power and strength enough to topple us right over, life and limb turned upside down. But mostly, I think His grace allows the ferocity of the wind. For me, it’s in the wind that The Lord speaks, when the honesty of mortal life is clear and I reminded I am not in control. But something and someone much bigger than me, who can stop the wind in an instant, has my life in His hand. Perhaps Elijah was on to something when he fled to that cave long ago, the place he seemed to always meet The Lord, and the place where the winds blew deep and wide, and God’s voice was found in a whisper (1 Kings 19).

Today the Texas wind has been blowing something fierce. And today I am certain I hear His voice. His presence is palpable in the sound of the wind and the consequent creaking of my apartment walls. He whispers memories of joy in those He called to care for me when I was too young to care for myself. He speaks the truth of grace in the memories I see, reminding me He has always cared and always will. He is not a God who forgets easily, or sleeps through our pain or circumstance. He is one who is patient with our questions and gracious to answer like a careful mother gathering her chicks to her chest, and a thoughtful father protecting His brood when the winds blow wild and questions are all we have.

Will you listen for His whisper in the wind with me?

Ash Wednesday

I watched the sun rise from the ancient room made of Texas hill country limestone, metal lined window panes defined the horizon line, and wooden benches carrying the weight of those just waking. The cross that hung above the altar and was veiled in purple gauze, seemed shaded in mystery, its depth I’m certain I’ll never understand. Folks gathered quiet in the still of the dawn and sat at the ready with grave anticipation to be reminded of sobering truth.

The liturgy began with comfort and routine. Depth of words spoken settled deep within and took us far into the places of our soul, confessions we do not have words to speak of when left on our own. The bishop came and reminded us that whatever we choose to take into Lent, we must carry whether heavy or light, those things are our’s to wear. There is no checking baggage at the beginning of a journey with God; this truth I know all too well. And in the James Earl Jones voice of the Bishop, the sing-song words began. I must remember them, he says, if my Lent journey will have the significance necessary to make Easter’s power realized in my busy world.

O woman, from dust you came, to dust you shall return….

Spoken confession and instant humility of the ashes remind me I am but dust. In the temporary state I live, I live because of the one who made me from ashes, and called me to life. He sustains as we feast on the bread and cup, and strengthens as our dusty foreheads call us to dependance; today and forever.

Perhaps I should wear ashes everyday and watch the Son rise and give life.

O woman, from dust you came, to dust you shall return….

Inside Emily’s Head

Turns out recruiting season has a way of consuming one’s mind. Needless to say, mine is one of those all consumed minds and I neglected to link y’all to an article I wrote for the family camp blog (that place I work). So, read this little excerpt and if you’re hungry for more, click the cute link at the bottom. Happy Weekend!

My first flight came at the ripe old age of six, when my family moved from Pittsburgh to Seattle. Fearless,I stepped foot onto that flying space ship with a backpack chocked full of activities I would barely use; the ease of air travel lulled me to sleep in all its oxygenated glory. Since then, I have flown all over kingdom come, as I moved across the States and spent a semester abroad in Israel. You can imagine my surprise when I began developing a weird fear of turbulence and my impending doom that would follow.
Read more…