Anne Morrow Lindbergh, in Gift From the Sea, talks about sea shells as symbols for the stages of a woman’s married life.  The double-sunrise (romantic love) the oyster (child rearing, stablizing) the argonauta  (the afterward independence and free float towards the sea).  Perhaps my life is not traditional (HA!)  and does not quite fit these stages or roles precisely.  I find myself less in the secure oyster stage of holding on firmly and adding space and possessions for my family than I do in the argonauta stage of holding my shell  with the sea as my destination.

In her writing, her reflections, I recognize myself.  (as innumerable women have before me.) She loves the sea, as I do (I long for it now!) and she loves to think and contemplate and spit her thoughts into the wind and let them spatter back. She reminds me that the more we grow into ourselves, the more we are free to live by propinquity with others, especially those closest and potentially most wearing, to us.  After all, I loved the double-sunrise portion of my love with David, but I do not wish to go back.  No.  I loved the Poe-ish, heart-strong, all-world-ahead self I was at 17, but I am ever so much gladder to be myself now.

At twenty nine and 11 months, I have merely to let a few more days drop away before I will enter my third decade in this world.  I have no sadness about “becoming old” or leaving my twenties.  But I do feel a shift at the soul level, a change in perception and awareness, a new ‘knowing’ of time and of self.

Anne writes: “A woman must come of age by herself.  She must learn not to depend on another, not to prove her strength by competing with another.  She must find her true center alone.  She must become whole.

The German poet Rilke writes ” A complete sharing between two people is an impossibility, and whenever it seems, nonetheless, to exist, it is a narrowing, a mutual agreement which robs either one member of both of his fullest freedom and development.  But once the realization is accepted that, even between the closest human beings, infinite distances continue to exist, a wonderful living side by side can grow up, if they succeed in loving the distance between them  which makes it possible for each to see the other whole and against a beautiful sky!”

Experiences of depth in relationship, like with David, have shown me much, MUCH about myself.  Experiences of loss in other relationships, of trust and felt betrayal have shown me other and also-wise things.  Moving into and through the deep pain in my soul has begun to free me to experience the wholeness of my created self.  For yes, just as it is true that we live in a broken world it is also true that we serve a healing God, a God whose one drop of blood can break curses.  Whose eyes long for my glance.

It is when I am most whole that I am able to reach out to others and also to myself.  Yet wholeness only comes one Way.  Still I am not becoming Jesus.  I am becoming me . . . the real true me who was named Ann Elizabeth and who most often now goes by Annelise but who bears a name from time eternal that only His lips speak, only His heart echoes.

As I move towards self-knowing, in propinquity (don’t you love that word!) with my beloved I move closer to the true me.  The me whose skin I will inhabit in heaven, whose voice will float in song, and whose laughter will never fear to be heard.

We cover so much of ourselves.  Our nakedness, yes.  (unless we flaunt it instead, diversionary)  But also the small things: our teeth, the hair on our arms and our too-skinny legs, our accents and our pasts.  We fear that we are only the parts of us we like the least.  And still He smiles, the shaky, shivery smile that holds pain, and He gazes, hoping we may look up and catch those Eyes.  Just one glance from them, just one drop of that blood, just a little propinquity with the Son-Maker . . . . . .

And our truest Selves will be Undone into almost-perfection.

I am overcome, recently, by a crazily big sense of thanks . . . . .

God really does inhabit praise.

And in my simple thanksgiving.  I blow incense towards heaven.

Which inspires more joy in my heart.

I am joining the Gratitude Community and will be sharing my thanksgivings with you all.

The Gratitude Community is a way to name the Endless Gifts in your life and to embrace praise

Here are a few to start with . . . more to follow in installations . . . . .

#1 Hot showers running scalding down my back – it NEVER gets old.

#2 Laura Ingall’s books on CD, filling the house with fiddle music and the old and good stories of childhood; mine and theirs.

#3 A GREAT haircut for the first time in several years.  Wow!

#4 Bracelets on our wrists, reminding us that to complain is to murmur against God’s perfect plans.  We will only fight our Enemies.

#5 Sculpey coming together in an artist’s deft hands; tiny wondrous creations.

#6 Generations coming together in the kitchen – and good food resulting.

#7 Suitcase living that makes laundry a snap.

#8 Did I mention hot water??  Dishes, clothes, kids – everything washes quicker and easier in this stuff!

#9 Reconnecting with an old friend and realizing how much we share and how similar our lives have become.  Thanks for long quiet talks Shari!

#10 Fresh creamy crunchy spicy salty wonderful guacamole!

It is evening and I type and Mim tells me that I sit in darkness too much.  That I always work in the dimness of a half-light.

I resist her attempts at light because the dim feels comfortable to me.

I worked at night in near-darkness for several years.   There was always solar power to conserve and large insects to avoid attracting.  Darkness was safe and quiet, calm and sure and familiar. And visitor-free.  And a chance to pause from trouble.

I grew to like it.

I like it still.

Anyway we all know what happens when the light goes on too quickly.   I’ll be blinded.  A nocturnal creature exposed and out of place in a too-real world.

Now I know why my American friends have not yet seen much of me; especially of my heart.

It is waiting for a slow dawn and for the narrowing of pupils and for a safe shelter from which to reconnect.

Innumerable doctor visits and new medicines and official photos and important paperwork later, we prepare to head back down to North Carolina and David’s parents tomorrow.  Where have these last five days gone??

Well, a second party to be sure. . . . Naomi celebrated her “friend birthday”  on Tuesday with two sweet little friends (we missed the third!) she has known since before we left Annapolis.  It was quiet and happy and Naomi-full.  She wanted a theme like Quinn’s last one which was Quinn-i-full (all Quinn, all the time) but we called hers “Naomi’s LIFE party” instead and celebrated her life and interests with a Naomi quiz, game of Life (her new favorite!), ecologically minded craft and so on.  She seemed to enjoy it all but I think the best part was the day we spent together shopping for favors and plates and decorations and a “store bought cake” (“because I’ve NEVER had one of those, Mom!)  We drank in the joys of things that are available here in the States that sate her desire for beauty and coordination and CUTE.  I love watching that about her and embrace it.  Pulling together her varied interests through thoughtful party planning (though the guests might not have noticed!) was a big part of the experience.  I’m glad I was able to let everything else float by and BE with her over the long birthday weekend.

She also got her first military ID, a ten year old milestone!  You can imagine how happy and proud this small bit of plastic makes my purse-totin’ girl!  I got my new ID too and finally replaced my long-expired license (note to missionaries: check your license expiration or face all kinds of re-testing including the driving test!)  We spent the last five days bringing in almost every kind of bodily sample possible to the military hospitals for testing and re-testing and then ingesting more and more medicines to treat what lingers from Uganda.  Service on the field doesn’t end when you get home – at least not until the bugs are flushed out!  Quinn is now on six different medications; we hope the end is in sight.

Phone calls and visits to a few friends, time with my family,  interviews with a new organization and potential school we’d like to attend, paperwork long overdue. . . . . .So passed these five days . . . . still feels like we’re not DOING much but we’re always busy.  The feeling of floating along on a cloud of Grace continues.  My subconscious tries to insert guilt, but so far I’m resisting, and resting in Him.

Naomi turned a decade yesterday.

The tenth year seems  to carry a golden aura.  It’s a somewhere birthday.

It makes me feel a little old.

And a little sad.

And a little panicked that this child will vanish into a woman some day.

She feels that too, somewhere deep down.

And tells me: ” I think I want to be a kid forever!!” as we talk about how much she will grow and change one day.

And I rejoice; because every child SHOULD feel that their life is simple and safe and joy-filled and beautiful, right now.

Meanwhile she tries very hard to grow up.

She fixes her hand on her hip.

She wrinkles her nose.

She sasses me with her backside as she walks away confidently from whatever I’ve asked her to do.

I have to say that I love it.

Mostly.

To have your first decade birthday fall on Easter is almost too precious for such a beautiful sunshine-haired nymph.

It was precious. And beautiful.  As is she.

To have a baby bunny born in the house where you are staying and to be given naming privileges of that teeny-tiny-hairless-ball-of-wonder, and to pick the name “Anastasia” because it means “Resurrection” is a bit over the top, don’t you think?

God didn’t.  He smiles over Naomi as He loves on her.  And I am happy.

Naomi spent her birthday: running across the lawn to find Easter Eggs, standing on tiptoe to see the special music at her favorite church, making an Easter craft in Sunday school (and oh how this child begs for Sunday school; Africa will do that to you!), eating a big lunch with her extended family, dancing to Greek music with her cousins, eating chocolate cake crowned with whipped cream and bejeweled with raspberries, following a pine cone trail of clues to find her presents, and dreaming among the famous cherry blossoms in the picturesque little neighborhood where I too used to dream among them every year.

It ended with a movie: an upside-down movie about an African American princess who turns into a frog.

The perfect ending for my sunshine-haired nymph who carries a warrior spirit, a healing touch, and the strength of the abolitionists in her slender, smiling, often-quiet frame.

Give the girl ten more years; even ten more months!  This one can move mountains.  And they’ll move happily just

because she asked.

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.