godsbooklover's Xanga

Forewarned is...?

Sat, 18 Jul 2009 20:15:01 GMT

My husband and I took a week's vacation recently. Our two grown sons met us in Pittsburgh for three days, we stayed in separate hotel rooms, did some of the same things, some different things. Then they came back to Fort Wayne, and we meandered across Ohio and Indiana for several days, just the two of us. We were relaxed and spontaneous and felt delightfully self-indulgent. I'm fairly certain we haven't done anything like that since before we had children--over 20 years ago.

On our last day away, we drove up to the Indiana Dunes. Dennis' dad grew up around there, and spent lots of time at the Dunes and swimming in Lake Michigan. Strangely, Dennis never remembers going there as a child, and we never took the boys there. I'm sorry now we didn't.

So we stopped at the visitor's center and talked to an excellent volunteer who gave us maps and advice for making the most of a couple of leisurely hours. We decided on a hike which would take us to the shore. It was about two miles each way, but there were several shorter loops if we got tired. We drove on up the road, found the little parking lot in the big woods. The trail wound through swampland and we were thankful for cool weather which rendered our long sleeves practical rather than an unpleasant necessity to ward off bugs. Dennis loaned me a hat, I put on my sunglasses, we each took a small water bottle and started off.

Right at the head of the trail, I found a tall branch with a thick top and pointed bottom, perfect for using as a staff. My husband had his own walking stick, of course. We walked at first along what looked like a dirt road, with grass growing between tire-worn bare earth--which turned out to be sand. Oh, that's why they call it dunes... Dennis caught sight, up ahead, of a doe breaking through the brush on one side of the "road" in one great leap, and disappearing into the swale on the opposite side. My head was down and I missed her...she was so quiet I never heard a thing. Later on we saw many hoof marks on the sandy trails, and felt as though we were hunters on the track rather than hikers sharing the road with wildlife.

We walked through swarms of bugs, past waist-high wildflowers and, after half a mile or so, into the forest. We weren't expecting the area to be so heavily wooded. The path became a bit hilly, up and down, but still it was moist, packed sand. Occasionally mole tunnels ran across the path, and my staff would sink down without resistance into the hollow under the sand. Tree roots buckled up and we had to watch our feet more and more. The day was quiet, breezy, good for just looking around, talking quietly. We kept expecting to round a curve or crest a little hill and see the great lake stretched out in front of us.

Finally after several summits and descents on trails getting a bit steeper now, we came to a place where another parallel trail joined ours. The little marker told us that we'd come 1.5 miles, and that we were still .5 mile from the beach. Well, we've come three-quarters of the way now. What's another half mile? We shrugged and smiled at each other, feeling intrepid. How hard could it be?

Oh. My. Goodness. They could have warned us. The paths got ever steeper...and our steps got ever smaller as we dug into the increasingly soft sand, and stepped cautiously over gigantic tree roots. Sometimes I used the roots as stair steps, but they weren't often so conveniently placed. Every time we approached an ascent, I said, "We'll see the lake when we get to the top, I'll bet!"

Nope. What we saw was a steep downward path, just as treacherous as the climb had been. Again. And Again.
Soon we stopped talking altogether. Every bit of concentration was needed to keep our feet under us. I was so thankful for the staff that helped me keep my balance in the slippery sand.

Twenty-five minutes later we caught a glimpse of the lake shimmering between trees. It was still at a distance, but we took a deep breath and kept going. It would be embarrassing to turn back now. The last hill was the very worst, and all the way down I caught myself thinking, "We have to go back up this hill..." Even after we left the woods there were several sandy bunkers to cross, one after another, before we finally stood on the beach proper, with the wind off the lake fanning our sweaty faces. We stood panting for a minute before we could talk.

Although the day was overcast, we could see Chicago at a hazy distance to our left. Gary was nearer, still in the west, and Michigan City loomed grayly on our right hand. One lone backpacker with a camera hiked along the beach as though on familiar ground. We drank our water and took deep breaths, trying to gear ourselves up to face that hike again.

The best thing about going back was that we knew if we could get through the first half mile, the rest would be easier. Experience was a comfort and a good teacher in that regard. We moved slowly, taking the hills in baby steps, tempted to stoop to crawling on all fours (I was tempted, anyway). Again the hills, both up and down, seemed to just go on and on...did we miss that marker? Had we passed it unawares? No, finally--there it was. Only a mile and a half more to go, but the trail would get progressively more level and firm. We'd make it back.

We were just coming to the curve that would put us on that stretch of sandy road closest to the parking lot. Another older couple (older like us, not older than us...I don't think) came into view. They were bare-headed, short-sleeved and looked totally unprepared for what we knew lay ahead of them.

I walked toward the female half of the couple and called out, "Are you planning to go all the way to the beach?"
They nodded, smiling. "We're planning to try."

I held out my right hand with the tree staff that had become an extension of my arm for nearly two hours. "Here," I said to her. "You're going to need this."

She looked surprised and hesitated. "Trust me," I said. "I found this at the trail head and I've been thanking God for it the whole way there and back. The last half mile is very steep through soft sand...but it's worth it. You'll make it if you go slowly." She took the staff and thanked me. They walked on.

We arrived at our car about ten minutes later. I wondered whether I'd done them a favor, telling them what to expect. If we had known what that half mile was like, would we have turned back? Maybe. But then again, experience is the best teacher. How can you define for someone else the difficulty of a task? At any given time?

We were well-rested and looking for a little adventure. We were dressed and equipped for the journey. We knew what we were looking for at the end of the trail and we were hopeful that we'd get there sooner rather than later. Warnings might have made us hesitate or worry, but would they have stopped us? I'm not sure. I'd like to think not.

More musings on this tomorrow...

mulch early, mulch often

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 22:53:53 GMT

I'm a bit stiffer and achier than usual tonight, after three hours in the garden today. The cool overcast weather--it was sprinkling some of the time--was perfect for heavy lifting and shifting, things I'd never attempt once the temperatures are over 80.

My older son watched me lifting bricks from a pathway, putting paver base and landscape fabric underneath, re-setting the bricks, and mulching around them. (And no, he didn't offer to help.) "Why didn't you do this in the first place?" he asked. Smart aleck.

"Trial and error," I replied. There's been a whole lot of trial in my gardening career, and a large percentage turned out to be error. Like sinking the bricks into the grass, forming a quaint pathway around the west side of the house. I think at the time I was going for the whimsical cottage look, as if the path had always been there, waiting to be discovered.

Of course the bricks became so overgrown that I forgot they were there. Now they're in the midst of a very large expanse of mulch, which was why I had the raise their level--so the mulch wouldn't bury them, too.

Shoveling barrow after barrow of mulch from the pile (four cubic yards) sitting next to the garage, I think: "This is worth it. Everything will be easier after this. And I'll never let the garden get so out of control again." It's basic maintenance, something I should do every year, and in some parts of the garden it's probably been at least three years since there's been any mulch at all. So the gardens have become a playground for all those perennials which I should have been dead-heading faithfully and didn't: they seemed lovely until now when they threaten to choke out every other plant I love. Then there are all those invasive weeds I should have dug up by the roots while they were young but snapped off at the base instead. What I gained in a quick fix for appearance's sake, I lost in a stronger root which supports a bigger, tougher weed now.

Does any of this sound like an allegory for spiritual discipline and the results of not tending one's spiritual condition? It's certainly seemed that way to me as I strain my back to undo several years of neglect. Regaining spiritual ground may not be so physically painful...but it's hard work that doesn't get easier the longer it's ignored. The danger, with gardens and souls, is that if one waits too long, there's nothing left but weeds. I imagine this is something akin to the ones in I Corinthians who are saved, but all their works are burnt up--wood, hay and stubble. Instead of bountiful fruit, there is only useless vegetation to be plowed under or dug up and burned.

Gotta Get This Off My Chest

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 00:34:18 GMT

I'm on the worship team tomorrow. Kind of unusual, to just sing and not lead. Nice for a change, I thought, to not be in charge of something.

That awkward statement that was made, by a very well-meaning, godly man...and he said it twice: once to me on the phone, and once to others in front of me...I tried to put it out of my mind. But I remembered it tonight:
"I saw you up in the balcony, and you were really worshiping. And I thought, 'We need her to be up on the platform.'"

I cringed the first time I heard that. Pretended I didn't hear it the second time. Is it just me? Does anyone else feel bothered by the idea of judging someone's worship by how they look at any given moment??? Did it not occur to him that maybe I sit waaay up in the balcony so that NO ONE will look at me while I'm worshiping? I am someone who tries to create a sharp divide between performance and worship, and this is possibly the worst thing you can say to me.

And now I have to be up in front of people tomorrow morning. Lord, please make me invisible.

Here's why I thought of this tonight. I surfed to the blog (via Facebook via Twitter) of a worship pastor friend of mine. He had posted a link to a YouTube video of a worship piece called "Revelation Song." I'd seen him reference it before so I was curious. I put my ear buds in and pushed play. Beautiful, quiet beginning. Strong and simply lyric. Layers of instrumentation and vocals coming...powerful...but I'm judging, not worshiping.

And then my computer screen went blank, and suddenly stars were streaming toward me. My screen saver had kicked in. My hand went to the mouse...and stopped. The song had in that instant become about worship, not about the many close-ups of worshiping individuals I was watching. I listened to the rest of the song with my eyes alternately closed or gazing at the stars. I had no desire to restore the video portion of the feed. It was perfect the way it was.

When I catch sight of someone else who is lost in worship, I feel like a voyeur. If I watch them on YouTube, I get cynical: "Yeah, like you didn't know that four cameras were on you..."

Do you blame me for feeling a certain dread of the morning? For wanting to be invisible?

Lord Jesus, let anyone who looks at me see only You. And let them look away, lest their eyes be dazzled by Your brilliance, or disillusioned by my frailty.

"Darling, I am Growing Older..."

Sat, 30 May 2009 01:15:34 GMT

This morning I justified my cell phone's existence...and my compulsive carrying it around even when I have no pockets. Working in the garden on a morning which is finally the right combination of cool, sunny but damp-earthed, I am determined to conquer the weeds at last. My cell phone rings. Am I busy? can I accompany this lovely group of singing ladies at a stylish nursing home? Why not? (It's a paying gig, of course I'll come!) I'll dig up, weed out, clean off, brush up, make up, dress up, head out. And I do.

By 2:30 I've gone over the music with the director. I've seen it before at a couple of rehearsals where I was the pinch-hitting pianist. We start in, lots of golden oldies for this silver-haired crowd. "O, You Beautiful Doll" and "Moon River." "Shenandoah" and "Hey, Look Me Over."

And that's when it hits me. Tickles me, really. When I am old and gray...well, older, grayer...No, better still, when both my boys are men with walkers or wheelchairs...they will sit where the attendant places them, among their floor mates, all nodding mildly, tapping a finger on their knee, and smiling gently. Some will drool, some will nod off or sing along slightly off key. They'll enjoy the presentation, though, saying, "Yes, yes...that's a good one. Play another by Saliva or Smashing Pumpkins." And a group of arthritic rock stars who've come to play for them, in the overly-warm common room, will count off that classic from the last century, "F--- You (An Ode to No One)"...just for nostalgia's sake.

This is where I came in...

Thu, 28 May 2009 01:48:36 GMT

About two and a half years ago, I was feeling stale as a writer. Hadn't flexed those muscles for awhile, and found it hard to get started again. After a time of having no opportunity, I was finding it hard to feel an inclination. So, inspired by a couple of blogging friends, I joined Xanga. Thought it might jump start me.

It worked. I got hooked on writing again. Found the thoughts came thick and fast. Finished my play, wrote a lot of prose and even some poetry. Made new friends. Happy ending.

Then, through a series of unfortunate events, we had to give up internet at home. At first, I was determined to keep at it, writing on my laptop, posting when I could. For six months I kept at it, and seemed to be serious enough that I even jumped ship to another site--one which felt more literary somehow...the lack of sidebar ads has something to do with it, I suspect. But after awhile, the very atmosphere I had created of literary sobriety began to stifle my impulse to write. Combine that with a busy schedule and continued separation from home internet...well, blogging came to a dead halt.

I'm back online at home again. Happy to be back. And find myself in the place where I started, wanting to exercise those writing muscles again. So I'm here where I'm not so worried about the high tone of my prose. Maybe I'll do what my friend Amy does and blog in both places. Maybe I'll figure out that I have two kinds of posts and keep them separate. Or maybe I'll start something entirely new like my friend Jon did with his 300 Words a Day.

In any event, I know I have lots to write about, and Xanga lets me do it without a lot of fuss. I've missed being able to format easily. And to let people know what I'm reading, watching or listening to, with the click of a button. Of course there's probably nobody listening now, but that's OK, too. I need to write for my own sake for awhile. We'll see if there's still anything worth saying. I just know I'm glad to be back.

For your information...

Mon, 03 Mar 2008 16:45:39 GMT

...thanks to my friend Amy, I figured out how to put a simple "subscribe by email" option on my new wordpress blog. If you haven't visited yet, please do. Look at the sidebar to the right and you should see that option near the top, just below the list of categories. Click on it and follow instructions. See you soon!

Jumping Ship...

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 21:21:50 GMT

Well, dear friends, today it is official. I have published my first serious post on my new blog over at Wordpress.
I'm not shaking the dust of xanga from my feet--I am still subscribed to many blogs on xanga and will be visiting and reading regularly (thanks to email updates). I may even post from time to time. But the advertising is getting too irritating, and so I'm starting over...like an emigrant to a new country, it will take awhile to get acclimated. I hope you'll come and visit me here. Thanks for reading!

2/16/08 edit: the address, in case your link doesn't work, is http://godsbooklover.wordpress.com/ and I believe you can subscribe to the site and get updates delivered to your inbox.

Come and visit

Mon, 11 Feb 2008 17:11:52 GMT

I have a new post this morning here. Come and check it out.

And a heads-up to all my xanga friends. In the very near future, I will probably be jumping ship
and beginning a new blog on wordpress. When it's official, I'll put the link here.

I Guess I Should be Encouraged...

Tue, 05 Feb 2008 21:32:24 GMT

...that I forgot it was "Fat Tuesday" (aka Shrove Tuesday or Mardi Gras) today. It slipped my mind that for some folks this is the last hurrah: chow down, for tomorrow is bleak and ashy with self-denial.

Funny--I've been resolving to eat purposefully, thankfully; I'm working on feasting ONE day out of seven (you guess which one), rather than whenever the heck I feel like it. Why should I eat cookies as if they were mountains? ( ...because they're there...) So, having been set on this purposeful eating for a month or so, with mixed success, blowing it on Fat Tuesday just doesn't make sense. And what's even better, it actually didn't occur to me until now (after 5:00 pm) that it was even a possibility!

I could pray, Augustine-like, that God might grant me self-control...first thing tomorrow morning. But that kind of prayer seems to me to be just slightly disingenuous. It's not as if there is anything magical, or even intrinsically sacred, about the Lenten season (my High Church brethren, if you disagree, please don't send letters). It is a man-made time of spiritual discipline and preparation for the most important celebration of the Church year...(my Low Church brethren, if you disagree, also no letters).

Should we not be celebrating the atoning death and glorious Resurrection of our Lord all year round? Of course! And should we not continually be focused on a life indwelt by Him, putting off the old nature, being no longer conformed to this world, setting our hearts on things above? Also of course. But the beauty of liturgy is in its power to remind us again of what we already know, and to prod us to renewed resolve. The cycle of the sacred should invigorate us as the change of seasons does, quickening our steps on the God-ward path. But regardless of calendar, whenever that nudge of the Spirit happens it should be heeded, yes? So if tomorrow is a great time to begin again, amen to that. And if your path tomorrow looks no different than today's, because you're enjoying your walk with Jesus, then amen to that, too.

If Mardi Gras is a party--let's party like Christ-lovers, and do it every day.

The Road Home

Mon, 04 Feb 2008 15:38:31 GMT

This is the first of several posts that I'll be writing for a Lenten blog which you can find here. This post will appear on Friday this week. After that, I'll be posting every Monday during Lent. There are seven other contributors to this project--the brainchild of Jon Swanson, by the way--so I hope you'll check it out regularly during this season and find encouragement and challenge there.

Dear Father God:

I had an emotional meltdown the other night. A periodic release of pent-up tears is cathartic for the mother of a prodigal. As I grieved, I found myself wondering, “How can You stand it? Having one or two wayward children is enough to burst a heart at the seams. Surely only an omnipotent Being could possibly bear to see His creatures—not just one or two, but countless millions—ruining themselves wantonly, and not destroy them in anger, walk away in disgust or wallow in despair.

You are the Father in the story, watching for all the prodigals, running to meet them, throwing Your arms wide. And my son isn't the only prodigal in this particular house. I'm looking at one in the bathroom mirror right now, blotchy skin and puffy eyes and all.

To be prodigal is to be "wastefully extravagant." When I think of the time, energy and other resources I've frittered away, when I could have been eagerly following you...I see husks in a trough, worthless. So this year I'm choosing to see Lent as a choice to embrace the road home, to turn away from the trough and plant my feet on the path again. I've been on this road, more or less, for over twenty years. But at times I've been too addicted to the safety of my own back yard to make much progress. Other times, well...You know my heart: You've seen how far the affections can wander, how easily the idols elbow in, as soon as good habits start to slide. You've heard the lame excuses which seemed like such good rationales—at the time—for not doing the right thing, the hard thing, the inconvenient thing.

So I'm heading toward home again. Traveling a familiar road has a charm all its own. Each landmark, each milestone brings you closer to the destination. But the prodigal's road isn't exactly "over the river and through the woods", is it? And while the prodigal literally traveled to a far country, and had to retrace his steps, I don't think each believer's failing lands them back at "Start" until they roll double-sixes. It's more like I stepped off the path following some distraction in the woods, which seemed lovely and enticing, but landed me in the swamp. And Jesus is walking me back to the level highway now, more or less where I got off.

I'm guessing that every path, every journey, is ever so slightly different from every other. But our destination is the same. It would be nice to share the road, tell our stories as we anticipate the hearthlight shining through the windows just over the next hill. Even if each road does come from a different place, till they all converge on one Father's eager smiling face, I think He's arranged it so we can be companions anyway. We can hobble home together, watching for the wide-spread arms of God.