I cup

warm orange glow, nest of black seeds

halved papaya

I stand

immovably

caressing this fruit

(with my eyes)

It rests

ministering somehow

inside cellophane

(where we all know it cannot breath)

breaking again

my heart oozes pain

it’s raw scar

remembering

what was once the exile

of a foreign land

and all it’s accoutrements

(like halved papaya)

Even a grocery store

is dangerous these days

in so many ways

for the deep paths of my heart

are almost-always-fresh

just like the cellophane wrapped tropical fruits

which line the linoleum paths

of the “market” here at “home”

The door opens and a little cold spills into the warmth of home.  They arrive from the hospital; weary from doing nothing much.  Tired from sitting and listening to loud breathing and for it’s absence.  Votives light the table, their glow’s coating everything with a sheen of beauty.

It’s no wonder Jesus said to “shine”.

Food heats on the stove.  Dishes heap together on a towel, drying.  Gleamingly familiar dishes ring the table; space for five.  We gather hands to ask Him to join our sixth, ten minutes across town, in a hospital bed.  The sixth who will proceed us.  The sixth from whom we came.  Tears form; loose and fresh; but as our short prayer ends we gather them back.  Our hands release and we clink glasses.  Food warms our stomachs, candles warm our faces, and the joy of simply BEING in each other’s presence welcomes His too.

David’s grandmother, Mema, died.  Her memorial service is today.  I did not know Mema till the last thirteen years of her one hundred year life.  During those thirteen years she lived alone in her pristine apartment, with her dog.  She wrote us notes and compiled two books of her wisdom.  She prayed for us and asked us the right questions as we went overseas.   She inspired us with her life and with her heart.  While most people grow more cantankerous or domineering or controlling as they grow older, she simply grew more SWEET.   I recognize much of her strong  beauty in my steadfast, kind and compassionate husband.  My simple, silly verse below can not honor her holy life well.  Yet I hope you get a glimpse into her way of living.  A way of life that was about seeing each bush aflame with sacredness.  She did not waste time eating blackberries.

Mema

Serene Woman
Beautiful
With her blond/silver finely coiffed hair, always neat

Delicate Steel
Immovable
Somehow soft enough to hug, and strong enough to lean on

Thoughtful Silence
Pondering
Sure of what she knew to be true, yet always ready to listen and learn

True Seer
Touching us
Each of us is the most important person in the world when we speak, to her

Informed Compassion
Interested
She always knew more about aid and politics and world events than I did

Steadfast Gardener
Every bud and sprig and branch well tended
Her plumeria’s bloomed
So did we

Buffy’s friend
Constant
In their mutual words and endless silences, we saw her heart

Thoughtful Writer
Careful
Composing paragraphs meant to unite, writing memoirs to remind

Reverend Enid
Pioneer
Leading in the church with the utmost wisdom and humility

Quiet Wisdom
Improving
She grew ever more herself, ever more true and real and SWEET

Mema’s Maker
Honored
By each simple sacred act of this deeply sacred Soul

I love you, Mema

I am alert enough now, in my process of transition, to miss a home of my own.  David’s father is in his last stages of long illnesses and so we are unexpectedly now with them; visiting him in the hospital, making plans, deciding how best to comfort him.  We are quiet for the first time in a long while. I cook a little, we create small things for the Pierce dollhouse with salt dough, and I finally find some space to think.

It is in this thinking that I remember that Easter is coming.  And I long to fill vases with green things from the garden or compound, get out the baskets for our resurrection eggs, and begin a new Easter devotional that I found online this afternoon complete with art and tree and lectio.  I long to celebrate Passover in our own home or place and with friends around us.  I long for the simple sacred of our space, our traditions, our lives.

But instead I will be.  As we walk this path with David’s father it is so much like the journey to the cross.  There is a waiting for hard things.  The knowledge that this can not be avoided.  And yet the hope that redemption will come.  There is the serious joy of walking not alone but with my beloved and my Beloved and those we love the most.

The Easter tree and resurrection eggs and vases of fragrant things are only symbols.   Instead we live the real thing this year.  With whatever accoutrements we can gather.  We believe what we most need to know.  That life comes after death.  And that Jesus really IS powerful – the Victor.

And we pray in faith that what we most wish for; will come true.

A dear friend and mentor called me a vagabond the other day. She softened it with the word ‘sacred’ and then said that she has always thought of a vagabond in a positive connotation.

Which I had never done.

It sounded romantic.

So I looked it up.

And this my friends is, it seems, what I am.

A vagabond is someone who “wanders aimlessly usually looking for food or employment” . Which is an almost perfect description of our entire family right now, much to our friends’ and families’ consternation. (they don’t mind the wandering but the requests for food get old.)

Another definition said: ” a carefree, worthless and irresponsible person“. Hmmm, yes.

And the synonyms for the vagabond are equally appealing: “see” hobo, vagrant, bum.

One definition was slightly more attractive: ” having an uncertain or varied direction.” Well THAT’S certainly true.

I think the idea my friend had was that we somehow resemble Jesus in his homeless state of dependence. That my lack of a home, car or direction gives me freedom to depend on Him. And that I, like all of us stuck in the exile between Eden and heaven, I long for home and do not find it here.

The torment of the vagabond life, she said, is having to hold all things loosely.

And, yet . . . . . there is beauty in the longing for what will be.

And despite all the negative connotations above; I really like that.

That’s the Sacred part.

Of what makes me a Sacred Vagabond.

“My friends, adoption is redemption. It’s costly,

exhausting, expensive, and outrageous. Buying back

lives costs so much. When God set out to redeem us, it

killed Him.” Derek Loux .

And to that I will just add in the words of former slaves:

“Freedom, isn’t free.”

“We reach for God in many ways.  Through our sculptures and our scriptures.  Through our pictures and our prayers.  Through our writing and our worship.  And through them He reaches for us.

His search begins with something said.  Ours bgins with something heard.  His begins with something shown. Ours with something seen.  Our search for God and His search for us meet at windows in our everday experience.

These are the windows of the soul.

In a sense, it is something like spiritual disciplines for the undisciplined.  In another sense, it is the most rigorous of disciplines – the discipline of awareness. For we must always be looking and listening if we are to see the windows and hear what is being spoken to us through them.

But we must learn to look with more than just our eyes and listen with more than just our ears, for the sounds are sometimes faint and the sights sometimes far away.  We must be aware, at all times and in all places, because windows are everywhere and at any time we may find one.

Or one may find us. Though we will hardly know it.  . . . unless we are searching for Him who has so long been searching for us.”

-Windows of the Soul, Ken Gire

I find this discipline, the discipline of awareness, the most crucial and most rigorous of all disciplines.  I know He has been, and is, calling me to full awareness, to Practicing His Presence as Brother Lawrence wrote.  The discipline of awareness isn’t counting on ourselves to find a window; it is seeing the window find us because we are after HIM.

I’m a bit silent here on the blog. . . . . and many other places as well. You could call me anti-social right now, not returning friends’ calls or spending much time out and about other than what is absolutely required. I’m gaining my footing here, finding my way in this strange land called America. And I’m glad I’m being patient and gracious with myself, with my need for silence and for pondering and for just BEing much of the time.

I’m pondering many things, and if I get inspired I’ll write more about them. I’m pondering communication with God and hearing his voice; pondering conscious consumerism, pondering the phenomenon of big-time bloggers (fascinating!), and of course pondering our future (occasionally).

We’re on a treasure hunt here in Dallas, Texas. Following the God-signs to see what comes next. And as I catch little glimpses, little bits sticking out like the edge of a paper clue, I feel satisfied; deep down. We’ve got some idea of where we’re going, some idea of what’s ahead. A string of what IS and WILL BE along with the long list of what isn’t and what may not.

So, surrounded by our dear friends and our combined six noisy children, I enjoy the silence of my self-imposed anti-social-life. And ponder.

Seen written in BIG letters on a Burger King paper tray-mat:

“Burger King. Because you have the right to have exactly WHAT you want WHEN you want it.”

Tell that to any kid in Bundibugyo and watch them stare at you like you’re crazy.

And they’d be right.

I brought that traymat home to put in my journal. So that I would NEVER, NEVER FORGET.

One more reason NOT to eat Burger King. And you can super-size that sentiment.

Spent a great afternoon with John and Karen – two really cool people who I’m going to pray into missions!!

Karen, an education expert,  introduced me to Geoffrey Canada’s work . . . . . pretty amazing stuff.   I’d love to do this with the basis being JESUS.

http://www.hcz.org/home