Early Morning Reflection on a Life Well-Loved -- Keith Korstjens

My church's old sanctuary with its beautiful, strong pillars

When I think of a "godly man" I initially picture someone who walks into a room and the crowd separates, making a way for him, all standing in awe.  I see someone to be looked up to.

But a godly man -- one we at my church called a pillar, in fact -- died last night.  And as I reflect on his life in this very early morning hour, I'm remembering Keith Korstjens, considering who and how he was.  Not someone to be admired, pedastaled high above the less righteous, rather he was a man who "dwelt among us," as it were.  Keith walked alongside, sat alongside people in pain, people who doubted, who cried, "Where is God in all of this?"

His words were wisely thought out, and  he was not eager to put the bandage of a pat answer on people's struggles.   I do have a few Keith-and-Mary sayings jotted down in my journals.  And I bring them to mind often.   My husband and I still say, "Remember what Keith taught in our engagement class," and reflect on the useful information he gave. Yes, a handful of quotes are forever in me to be recalled when needed.

But with Keith it was more about the presence.

As he visited with, grieved with, listened to, sat with others -- with me, with my family, we had a sense that we were with Jesus.  Keith and Mary came to Loma Linda late one evening, along with many others who loved my family, because we had been told we were going to lose my dad that night.  Twenty-plus people all sitting really closely in a tiny waiting room, being present to God, to the moment, to each other.  I noticed Keith in the doorway (they couldn't fit into the jam-packed room) starting to tell people goodbye, pushing Mary away in her wheelchair.  I ran up to them to thank them, to get one last hug.  "I can't go through my life without my dad," I said.

Again, listening, again, loving.  Tenderly one of them said, "Oh, sweetie, God will give you enough faith for today.  You cannot borrow faith from tomorrow."   Mary shared as they departed, "We're leaving you in very capable hands, the hands of Jesus."  And they entrusted us to Him.

 I read something recently challenging me to set aside a few minutes while in a public place and to look for God in every face I see.  This was new to me.  I've often asked God to help me see others through His loving, merciful lens, but to look for Jesus in the face of people I encounter was different.  I tried it while in line at the post office.   Looking critically, harshly at the postal workers as I waited, wondering whether any of them washed their hair that day, noting the ways each was using time inefficiently -- you know, those days when you just see what's wrong with everyone around you -- when God brought to mind what I'd read that morning.  "Getting a hint from what the psalmist wrote -- 'Come,' my heart says, 'seek his face' -- practice looking for God in every face you see."

This practice had immediate, transforming effects!  My gaze softened while seeking reflections of Jesus Himself in others' eyes.  And you know what?  I saw Him there!

I guess it's this thought that compelled sleepy me out of bed early this chilly, wet morning.  Often it's said of Keith that we saw Jesus in his eyes, felt the heartbeat of Jesus as Keith hurt with us, heard Jesus in the things he said.  But today I close my eyes and picture times with Keith and know undoubtedly he was looking for Christ in my face, in my pain, listening for Him in my tears, sensing His presence the times I thought God was surely absent.

We saw Jesus in Keith's life, while He was looking and listening for Jesus in ours.

This is so going to be one of those funerals that could never, ever be long enough to fit in the stories of memories -- memories of Keith, of Mary, of "KeithandMary."

Thank you for listening to just one reflection of mine.  

Sunday Morning After Friday Massacre

Many of my days have ended in tears, but today my pillow absorbs fresh cries upon my waking.  I scan in my mind over the three other bedrooms in my home, rooms once occupied by my four full-of-life children, children, now grown, tucked safely in their own beds, their own homes.

Twenty-eight hundred and eighteen miles away from me, parents are waking, if they were able to sleep, to the raw new reality of that empty bed, that empty room, that empty  hall in which footsteps and laughter of their children will never be heard again.   An echo of their grief reaches me from the other side of the country.

Most often I can block bad news out, way out, far away, not my reality, protecting my heart, my mind.  Not so now.  Not so.

Can we create a new app, somebody, please?  One that flips the calendar backwards?  Can we put an undo button on this mess, this blow-to-our-guts horror?

Some Sundays I don't want to go to church, choosing to watch the sermon online, but today am drawn there.  Gosh, I want to be early.  I long to sit with other people, all with huge question marks in our eyes, carrying what-the-hecks on our hearts.  A.  Time.  To.  Mourn. Together to listen for that voice of hope in this seemingly completely mad world.  A time to pray and wail, to weep and wait, to listen, to be comforted.

Some days the questions seem a whole lot bigger than the answers.

Merciful God, meet us here with the reality of your hope amidst the reality of our anguish.

Treasures from the Trail, Part 6 - Trail Kisses

Splash of Color

Colors evoke feelings in us.  Commonly yellow is associated with feelings of cheer; green, with envy; red, with power.  As I hike, I am nurtured, calmed and strengthened by many different colors.   For example, when I pass purple flowers, I am reminded of my royalty, how rich I am, how lavish my Father is. But sometimes my exhaustion gets all my focus and I cease to notice ways God may be trying to get my attention, to turn my head towards yet another way He longs to bless me. 

As I am weary and worn, head low-looking, trudging along, seeing only gray granite color, a surprisingly lovely color enters my periphery.  And turn my head, it does.  Whether it's an coral orangish red or a reddish orangish coral, who can say?  I cannot define it with words but concluded the feelings stirred in me when my eyes rest upon it are feelings of delight.   

I started saying to myself whenever seeing my luscious, coral-red, favorite flower color, "That's delightful,"  or, "That brings me delight."   Somewhere in my journey, I shifted from thinking about the flower and its exquisite color to expressing my feelings to God.  "You delight me," I'd utter to Him, sometimes quietly inside me, sometimes whispered gently on my exhale.

I'm told that my dad as a young boy upon seeing the moon would run into his house from wherever he was playing to give his mom a kiss.  That became his cue, his reminder to express love to his mother.  And it was his idea!  How blessed she must have been to receive that affection from her boy.  Similarly God and I developed our secret sign on this hike.  He would show me that color, to which I would respond, "You delight me."  I felt goofy at first,  presumptuous somehow that this little praise from me would even turn God's ear or matter to Him, almost like I was pretending He cared to hear from me or even was listening at all, for that matter.

But listen, He did.  We shared sweet exchanges of affection on the trail that day, as I shifted  from thinking about Creator God's works to forming a response to Him, this time with words, the three words that became precious kisses from me to Him, "You delight me."

Treasures from the Trail, Part 5 - A Word About Vanity

Morning Instant Oatmeal Feast

This whole backpacking-with-my-husband thing has been a gift on countless levels, really.  One of the treasures our times have contained is most surprising to me.  When Brent and I vacation staying in hotels, I can get caught up in what I look like.  Do I look cute? feel cute? am I cute?  Are my earrings matching (hopefully they're matching each other, but I mean are they matching my outfit)?  And I pack many shoes to wear just the right ones with each set of clothes.

He and I have discussed how backpacking is a fast in many ways:   a fast from our soft bed, running water, fresh food, appliances, icy cold drinks, electronics.  On the list goes.  For me it is also a fast, a retreat, from the need to look darling.

It's not that I haven't tried.  Sensing my desire to appear and feel more feminine on the trail, I ordered hiking skorts.   I researched to find a great price and read all 53 reviews about the item of clothing I ordered that promised to be functional and, well, frankly, adorable.  Next was the trail test, where I wore them on a local overnighter to see whether they'd make the cut to bring to our big hike in the Sierras.  Portrayed as feminine, functional, water resistant, bug proof, SPF 50 rated and great fitting,  how could this item of clothing be resisted?  However, In all 53 descriptions of how this skirt-short combination changed women's lives for the better, no one mentioned that with each step my thighs would be saying, "Pardon me, excuse me," to each other!  REI takes returns for any reason.  Reason?  Um, my thighs rubbed together?  "They didn't work for me," was my explanation to the sales associate as I slid the unwanted skorts across the counter towards her.

I share this to say that, while I still struggle some with vanity, I've experienced much freedom as well.  Farthest from my mind now is, what is Brent thinking of how I look or am I feeling pretty?  I get so bamboozled with the beauty around me, what God is doing in me and focus on the steps and the exertion, the life inside me that my eyes and attention are off of my appearance.  Early on in our trail adventures, what  became apparent to me is that much of the fun we enjoy together on these journeys is due to my not having room to pack my vanity.  I am traveling lighter!

Can anyone think of a caption for this picture?

Admittedly, I delete some pictures I see when we get home.  Sometimes I see one and let out a big, "Whoa!"  But I'm caring less.  The  bad pics don't sear their images on my mind or taunt me like they used to.  A friend was talking with me about what she was going to wear on a trip to the East Coast this fall, and she said she was feeling drawn to packing more simply and not being so caught up in what she wore.  I encouraged her and pulled out my phone and brought up these puffy-eyed photos I'm sharing,  telling her I was going to write about this subject, and she reacted with a sincerely concerned look, asking, "You're not going to show anyone those, are you?"

Well, yeah, I think I will!  Thanks for the idea.

I never realized just how self-occupied with my own looks I was until I fasted from my primping.  If my thoughts of how my own attractiveness or lack thereof are not on the front burner of my mind, there's more space to focus on enjoying my husband, together unwrapping this tremendous gift the Giver of all good things has presented to us.

Treasures from the Trail, Part 4 - The Still Waters

As we journeyed further after lunch, well-rested and revitalized, we came upon a rich-in-color lake.  If Brent and I were going to make camp before nightfall, we could not stop at every breathtaking site, so it was essential that this lovely lake be bypassed.  Walking by it, I kept glancing over my shoulder through the trees to see the rich blue-green color, to take in its still beauty.  Excitedly I yelled ahead to my husband, "Jesus is leading us beside the still waters!"   I could only snap a couple of pictures then carry the scene in my mind while the hike continued.

I reflected upon what is soul-restoring about still waters.  "He leads me beside still waters.  He restores my soul."  First, I wonder, when did I start taking so lightly how profound it is that the maker of the universe would lead me, that the One who placed each star where it belongs has a place for me, that He who led the Israelites and Moses across the Red Sea takes me by the hand and shows me the way to go?  This is no small thing, I realized, soaking in the truth that  here and now, He has led me to this place.

I know this has implications for shepherds and sheep, but I later jotted down what I noticed as Jesus walked me by the still waters.  What is the value of His doing so?  What about still waters grants me the restoration my soul so desperately needs?  Here is what I came up with that is offered to me at the waterside:

Reflection - The value and necessity of my reflecting on what God has done, to ponder what He is doing, to "see again" His showing Himself to me.

Depth - To look with Him under the surface of me beyond what is obvious.  His spirit at work deep inside me, changing me, loving me.

Color - Rich, rich blue-greens that sing of healing and beauty and life.

Serenity - I feel peaceful and quiet when I gaze on the placid waters.  My mind becomes unoccupied  with the worry that tries to reside there.

Settling - Nothing is moving nor rustling about.  Something in this gives me hope that Christ can calm my rushing heart.

Refreshment - Coolness, cleanliness, moisture of living water quenching my drenched spirit.

Responsiveness - I realize that if I were to throw a rock into this still water, an impact would be made, a rippling would occur.  I long to still my heart so that it is in a place to respond to God's initiations.  A stone thrown in a rushing river would hardly be noticed.  Where in my life is God trying to get my attention?  A still heart notices more than a frantic heart.

'Tis a profound thing to be led.

'Tis even more profound that I, a wandering, often directionless sheep, am learning to follow.

Treasures from the Trail, Part 3 - The Invitation

"Come to me, you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." - Jesus

"Mommy, God made this tree just for me," the words of my four-year-old daughter rang through my memory.  I could see her standing in a hollowed-out tree stump fitting perfectly within its contours. "Yes, he did, honey," I answered back, my heart happy to see her delightfully enjoying God's creation.

But now it was I lying in rather than standing in a hollowed-out tree.  Brent and I had stopped to each lunch and regain our strength next to a beautiful waterfall minutes before.  We hiked on from that place along the edge of a lake.  Shortly past lunchtime, Brent stopped again to pump and filter water from the lake, which gave me time to explore, take pictures and breathe in the wonder of this place.

An old tree trunk lay resting on the shore then extending onto the water.  Though I had already felt rejuvenated from our lunch stop, the appeal of  taking my pack off again and lying in the log was too great to resist.  I sat on the log, soaked my feet in the water while photographing my feet as they were being refreshed in the coolness.  Finding I had phone service, I snapped pictures of the scenery and texted messages with photos to my children.  I was so excited about this place of rest I'd discovered but was frantically telling everyone about it and recording it rather than actually entering into the offered rest that was before me.

Finally I turned off my phone and lay down.  Water surrounded me yet could not touch me on either side of the log that cupped my body.  I felt more quiet and peace than I had ever experienced without the help of an anesthesiologist.  I was being held.  God made this tree just for me, I echoed the sentiments of my daughter from years ago.  I suppose you could say I was taking the invitation to rest and be held personally.  The tree was there for me --  yes, for me.  I want to say that's silly and brush it off.  But what if the Creator of all that is allowed me to notice this piece of wood and let it be there right then, for me?

"Don't take things personally," we often say and have said to us.  Yet I believe there is much that we are meant to take personally, to receive as a gift within our person.  I have noticed even the most cynical take to heart  rainbows and shooting stars.  Yes, millions are viewing the same scene.  But God has something that touches us each personally as we view the colors and arc of a rainbow or the brief, gasp-inducing brightness of a star shooting across the night sky.  And we sense something that is beyond us yet speaking a message of love into us.

With an ache I long to be able to express what this time of deep rest did in the deepest parts of me.  I know I came away from there smiling at the love shown me, changed somehow,  open, with a desire to be more aware of God's invitations to me in the future.  I am surprised at how close I came to just giving the scene a thumbs-up, telling everyone about it, loving the idea of a resting log rather than actually entering into it and receiving what my Maker had carved out for me there.

Talking with some friends who had recently hiked in the same area, they mentioned they had gone by the very lake at which we stopped.  "Oh, did you see my log?" I asked, describing it to them gleefully.  They did not at all know what I was talking about, yet God had personal gifts He gave to them on their way as well.

I can sense God's delight when I think of Him watching me open His gift and respond to His invitation to soak my feet, to celebrate His beauty and to enter into the made-just-for-me reclining spot. 

I still smile to think of it.

Bridal Shower Blues

The Pinterestable Standard

I am hosting a bridal shower for my lovely niece Chandra in six days.  It's been 25 years or so since I have attempted such a feat.  Things have changed.  Back in the day we, with scissors, cut out umbrellas from construction paper, wrote people's names on them with Sharpies, and they pinned them to their blouses when entering the party.  The pin wasn't special.  Neither was the paper nor the pen used to write out a person's name.

We provided guests a cake, cute paper plates with matching cups and napkins, punch in a pretty bowl and possibly some nuts and mints -- No.  Wait.  Those were reserved for the wedding reception.  We played corny, wedding-themed games.  It was all really fun and celebratory and, well, unpinteresting.  No one was going to make a collage or photobook or facebook page of the event.

Preparing for Chandra's shower, I had to accept I could not get my computer to print the printable invites I'd purchased, so by hand I wrote out each invitation.  I look at the baby shower invite I just received magneted to my fridge, and notice how professional looking and creative it is.  The shower has a theme!  It's a sailor theme.  And everything on the invitation rhymes.  Things have changed, a lot.

I saw early in the planning I needed to let go of some standard I was comparing my efforts with.  And I was doing fine with that, until I received an email from a friend of the bride, who is a professional photographer, offering to photograph the shower.  Now as I think about the snacks that are to be served and the arrangement on the table, I keep picturing the photographs that will be taken.  Chandra's color for her wedding is blue, in varying shades.  I did consult pinterest to find a blue punch recipe.  It will look great in the pics!  And there are treats I envision dipping in white chocolate dyed blue.  And the desserts that are not blue and can't be injected with blue or topped in blue, well, they will be on blue plates, of course!

It wasn't until I described an idea I had to my good friend, who is helping plan the shower, that I realized how obsessed I had become, having shifted my eyes from the goal of blessing my niece and celebrating her upcoming wedding to the insistence that everything look amazing.  Oreo offers a cookie in the summertime with baby blue centers!  But summer is over, and the blue-filled Oreos are nowhere to be found.  "I have an idea," I exclaimed, to my co-planner, with my brown eyes now lit up blue with excitement.  "I can scrape the centers out of the cookies then dye the frosting blue and reinsert it into the cookies!"

Mind you, there are much more practical things which need to be accomplished.  "What's it like to be inside your head?" my friend asked, as she looked at me with concern.  We had to both laugh about how carried away I can get and obsess, elevating some unimportant details to the status of way important!

As I was emailing my sister this morning about all of this, God reminded me of a lesson He's been teaching me in other areas of my life:  Only He has to be amazing.  I offer Him back the gifts He provides, the ideas He provides with the strength He provides, and it's His job to make things amazing.

Maybe it's amazing enough that my niece survived a severely premature birth, entering the world weighing one pound, ten ounces, was rescued from the steps of a Calcutta orphanage and delivered into my sister's arms three months later.  That she grew to be a  God-loving, bright, beautiful young woman.  That God handpicked a young man who adores her to be her husband.  That we who love her -- the junior highers she ministers to, her family, friends, those she tutors in an after-school program -- get the opportunity to gather to shower her with love, to rejoice with her as she receives what God has for her.  Maybe the reasons He has given us to party together are enough and He's simply inviting us to join in the celebration.

I'm choosing to accept God's invitation to entrust the day, with its planning and details, to Him.

I hope he has blue sprinkles!

Treasures from the Trail, Part 2 - Bearing the Burden, and The Truth About Truth

1,000-foot climb at Mile 3 - Tired Me

I wasn't too far into my hike before I felt the effects of having packed seven extra pounds of stuff beyond what I was used to carrying.  By "not too far into my hike," I mean the road was still visible where the plush, air-conditioned bus dropped us off minutes before, while we were wide-eyed with anticipation over the adventure ahead.

Some of the additional poundage could not be avoided:  a bear canister in which all food must be stored, layers of clothing, raingear, food for a five-day journey.  Maybe four pairs of socks was a bit too much, but that is where my excess ended.

In the past I'd learned of an unnecessary, even harmful addition to the weight of my pack:  the hammer of condemnation.  At times I have necessarily imagined laying a heavy hammer down on the side of the trail as I hike.  And what a lighter load I have to carry after doing so!

The hammer pounds into me who and how I'm not compared with who and how I think I ought to be.  The  messages of the hammer go something like this:

"Real hikers don't have any extra tummy bulging above their waistbelts, and they look a lot more like the people in the REI catalog than you do, firm, smooth and strong."
"If you were really amazing, you'd go a lot faster.  You'd take those big, granite steps head on rather than finding shortcuts around them."
"Your pack needs adjusting?  It's not the pack; it's you.  Your frame is wrong and twisted or this pack would fit you fine.  You are wrong."
"Uphill shouldn't be difficult.  You are just weak and lazy.  You can't do hard things."
"How dare you enjoy this time?  People in the world -- and even people you know -- are suffering."

Oh, and this one:  "Your husband wishes he were married to a truly athletic woman.  You are holding him back and are a burden to him."

(All the above messages have been hard battles, but the italicized one has brought many tears and much wrestling with God.  He won -- well, I guess we both did -- and I came out changed, like Jacob.  And, yes, like Jacob I limp.)

Even though I'd abandoned the hammer on a dusty trail in Southern California over 300 miles away,  the ugly, heavy tool tried to get me to take on its damning lies once in a while as I faintly remembered what it previously pounded into me.  The lies now passed as quickly as they popped up because I'd learned that living, moving and having my being in Christ is more fun, free and light -- and where I was made to be.

As I see me as He sees me and live under the adoring gaze of my Creator, I dance, not as if no one were watching, rather as if Someone who is bursting with love, grace and delight toward me cannot take His eyes off of me.  Sometimes I picture Jesus hiking in front of me backwards, as though we are two ice skaters.  When I start to wonder what my husband, Brent, is thinking of me (Brent has been nothing but encouraging about our hikes, so this comes from me and the hammer),   I look at Jesus, and He reminds me of what He thinks of me and feels toward me, which is what matters most.  Best of all, I begin to believe it and live in that place.

Nevertheless, this load was a heavy one, and my shoulders were carrying the brunt of it.  We stopped to adjust my straps often, which helped slightly but did not provide enough relief for me to walk without agony.  During miles two to four, when we were hiking switchbacks over a steep, rocky hillside in the heat of the day, I began to ask God to help me shift the weight to my hips, where it belonged.  He gave me the idea to relax my shoulders and allow my whole body to help carry the burden.  I physically was bracing too much.  Just like when life gets hard and I try to shoulder the responsibilities I've been given all on myself and don't ask for help, I was overwhelmed and exhausted.  I will sometimes encounter a difficult situation with the attitude that I had better brace and strive because this is a tough thing I'm about to do, when really, God is calling me to settle into the now of my life, receive it as a gift from Him, seek to know and love Him more in that place and call on Him to help me.  He has given me His presence with me and resources (in this case, the rest of my body that needed to share the load), and beckons me to use them.

I considered a phrase I had not previously pondered, "deep-seated gratitude."   We experience gratitude in our bodies in the "seat" of us, between our hips (if you sit with your gratitude for long and sense it in your body, you will see what I mean).  I am fatigued as I try to let my life rest on my own shoulders.  But as I receive with openness what is on my life's path as a gift, what I am carrying is much more manageable and even becomes enjoyable.   

I began thanking God for His Presence with me and even for the difficulty of the trail, trusting Him to strengthen me.   It is said God never gives us more than we can handle.  I find that so funny.  I believe He intentionally gives us more than we could possibly bear so we will realize our need to depend fully on Him and His offering of grace, strength and love toward us.

My ascension of the steep, switchbacked mountainside held for me new, refreshingly different messages from those of the hammer.  Brent instructed me wisely in how to approach the too-high rock steps that drained me, leaving me huffing and puffing for air (the ones I'd previously thought I had to be amazing to conquer).  "Look for intermediate steps," he encouraged, "to conserve your energy."   Hikers I met coming from the opposite direction cheered my way, "You can do it!" or "You're doing great!" or my favorite, "Very soon you will see a waterfall!"  Ah, the promise of beauty and refreshment ahead!  I absorbed the encouragement offered as a sponge and let each word and smile that came my way fuel me.  Having laid down the lies, there is space in me to receive truth.

And truth is always freeing.

Treasures from the Trail, Part 1 - What a Difference a Decade Makes

Last week my husband and I backpacked 32 miles of the John Muir Trail from Mammoth Lakes to Tuolumne Meadows over a four-day and three-night period.  Strapped to my back was 30 pounds of food, water, clothing and other necessities.  A few ounces of the weight was taken up by a small journal and a ballpoint pen with which I jotted down some of what I noticed going on around me and inside of me as I traversed the majesty of the High Sierras.

Over my next several entries, I will unpack in a sense the scrawling contained in my tiny notebook, expressing what God showed me to be true of Him and of me and how He met me in surprising ways on my journey.  Part of what I love about backpacking is how I am forced to slow down, both mind and body.  As I stop rushing, I arrive in a place where I am able to enter each moment, experiencing life one step at a time, one breath at a time, opening myself up to noticing God's presence in the world out there and in me, in here.

What I will begin with (and will, no doubt, be woven into much of what I share) is something that is becoming an essential, expanding part of me:  gratitude.

As we started on our trail, I was thinking about how I am soon to be turning 50.  Forty-nine.  I'm 49, I thought, and receiving this new gift God has given me of being able to hike with my husband.  How good is that? I smiled and thought to myself.  My mind jumped back a decade.  What was I doing ten years ago this summer, when I was 39 going on 40?  I was preparing to begin treatment for hepatitis C, with which I had recently been diagnosed, having received the disease from a blood transfusion in 1976.  Appointments with doctors, specialists, psychiatrists, calls to the insurance company, along with much prayer and questioning occupied me that summer, not knowing what lay ahead but, with what faith I could muster, entrusting the outcome to God.

The year-long treatment, which tremendously weakened my body, to my utter devastation and disappointment, failed, as did my spirits after receiving the bad news from the doctor.  The walls of the examining room closed in on me upon hearing the words, "Don't worry.  You won't have cirhossis of the liver for at least five more years."  Plunged into a deep, dark depression, frozen with fear that I would not live long, I entered a path of illness, anxiety and despair.

But that was ten years ago.  The ways in which God invited me to re-enter life, met me in my loneliest times and gave me new strength still amaze me but are subjects for another time.

Gratitude pulses through my veins as I begin my trek on the John Muir trail, aware that God Himself has given me new energy, new enthusiasm, enough that I am able to follow the desire He gave me to join my husband for this incredible adventure.

For the things He has done, I thank Him.  For Who He is, I praise Him.  For the creative ways He gifts me, I bless Him, and excitedly step foot onto the path to which He has led me.  My heart and eyes are open wide, and I am humbly grateful, ready to receive the blessings, trials and beauty of this place.

Celebration

A green balloon

Or two

A pinetree-shaped

Sugar cookie

Or a card perhaps

Yes, a card

With a mountain scene

A meadow

A bird

A meadow lark

Singing its flute song

A stone path

Peaks

Valleys

Harsh, steep trails

Scorching summer sun

Weight, pain

Flight

Rest

Humor, so much humor

Despite the agony

Because of the agony

The journey I

Observed

From a distance

An onlooking friend

Cheering

Letting her story

Change me

How do I celebrate

The beauty

The life

The victory

How do I say

My spirit

Is stirred

I smile with you

Share a meal

Together

Laugh hysterically

And weep a bit

As you paint a picture

With words

Of the path

You walked the trail

You climbed

The people

You met

With gratitude

I receive

The raingear

You lend

Knowing I too

Will need

Protection

You cannot hike

The trail

For me

A twinkle in your

Eye conveys you know

It will be hard for me

As well

I can learn much

From observing

You

But must go

Myself

Must go

Learn the lessons

Learned by those

Who dare to

Step

Where they are led

A profound wonder

It is

To be led

To follow

The desire planted

In the heart

The deepest part

Of one's being

My friend has been

So brave as to listen

To the song

To the spirit

Within who

Leads her

She now sings

In return

A song

A meadow song

A tune unmatched

In beauty

Unprecedented

In grace

Life-giving

Grace

To Carla, aka Meadowlark

With so much love

From

Diane (yet to have an aka:)

Dry

Sometimes my hope
Is covered in cobwebs
All but forgotten
Sometimes the river
Of life that ran through me
Is a path
Of rocks
So dry
So dusty and dry
Sometimes each song
I sing
Or hear
Or think about
Falls flat
On my ears
On my heart
On my vacant heart
Sometimes

diane mann 2012

Morning Journal After Disorienting Dream

I'm following Love
It's calling me on
And Love
Is following me

Look on in wonder
Scratch your head
As I pass by
I won't apologize
Anymore
Not ever again

For choosing to be
And become
Who I'm created
To be --
Simply me
Following Love, Who
Always follows me!

diane mann 2012

The Cross Next to the Door

I sat in the front room of my house spending some quiet-and-still-with-God time.  Usually I settle on the floor of my office in the back corner of my home, but this particular morning, I was drawn to sit near the window that looks out to our neighborhood.

As I opened my eyes, I saw something unnoticed by me previously, a large, lovely, wrought-iron cross hanging on the neighbors' home across the street just next to their garage door.  From my narrow view through a pane in the window, the cross and the wall to which it was attached were all that could be seen of their home.  Asking my husband whether the decoration was new, he replied, "No.  That cross has always been there."

For a while I gazed at it, enjoying the focus of the symbol of Jesus' sacrifice for all, for me, for my neighbors.  I've never noticed it before, I kept thinking, surprised by my having overlooked it.

What had captured my attention these years as I occasionally looked across the street?The flatbed trailer parked next to the curb to haul four-wheelers to the desert each weekend, seeing the excitement of the occupants of that home as their son returned from Afghanistan, a new RV, hedges planted in front of the RV to help meet city storage codes, father and son working on cars together, some things that impressed me about their family, others that upset me about my street looking more cluttered.

Sitting with all my thoughts, the one that settled and resounded within me was this:  If Jesus is not in every person, He is right next to the door of the heart of each person, longing to dwell within them.  God is at work in and just outside of, if you will, everyone's life!  When I interact with people, easily I am distracted by what impresses me or that of which I don't approve, when Christ is there, drawing that person to Himself.  If Jesus is not in a human's heart, is He not at the doorstep seeking entrance?  That's what I long to focus on, the activity, the voice, the presence of God in a person's life, whether that individual has acknowledged Him yet or not.

I join with Paul in His first letter to the Corinthians, wherein he recites his resolve, "For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and Him crucified."
(2 Cor. 2:2, ESV)

Lord, please give me eyes to see You, ears to hear You, a heart that responds to You as I journey with others, letting the distraction of my opinions fall away.  How cluttered my own life becomes, where my vision of You is obstructed and the din of my self-made busy-ness overpowers the sound of Your heartbeat.  Thank You for the cross of Christ!  I love how, like my neighbors' house decoration, "It's always been there," for me and for everyone.

diane mann 2012

The One Who Answers My Prayers

An answer to prayer –

Not what I dreamed of

Not what I hoped for

But wrapped in love

Your answer came

With a clear reminder

That You, the Potter

Do what You wish with the clay

I was certain you were molding me one way

Only to find I was wrong

That of which I was so certain

Vaporized in a moment

But you did not leave me empty

Gently and with so much comfort

You assured me

That Your ways are far above mine

And convincingly You reminded me

That You are able

To do abundantly more

Than all I could ask

Or even imagine

So yes, with sadness

And some wondering

I will thank You

For this answer to my prayer

And with anticipation

I choose to look ahead

To discover what You are creating

Of me, the clay

Make me soft and pliable

Easily yielding to Your hand

So fervently working

So lovingly molding

Give me peace

Knowing I can trust

The artistry of such a Sculptor

As You

I will not pretend to understand

When I really don't

But will trust what I know to be true of You

Oh, who am I to question

My maker, my molder

The One who answers my prayers?

Diane Carver Mann 1996