tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85696030586684064772024-02-18T20:24:59.561-08:00Prone to WonderDiane MannDianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-15195853431483306242023-03-14T07:00:00.000-07:002023-03-14T07:00:01.492-07:00I'm So Glad I Was Wrong<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJE_-kt8dcBPVSla2EMc-4KQKOlESU8CfP3uUV-N4-5-s0E0InMtm3xxW118yTY-JW5OweX3Hhn71Ef1yeGEfeAXYixN-ye5lBlU3inqypn9Gol_aKNKMqsGPp9bSHhvyzgKlHqYfNlL9f/s1600/59310537402__D656F3DB-EC45-4B02-A651-083EA0B3C103.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJE_-kt8dcBPVSla2EMc-4KQKOlESU8CfP3uUV-N4-5-s0E0InMtm3xxW118yTY-JW5OweX3Hhn71Ef1yeGEfeAXYixN-ye5lBlU3inqypn9Gol_aKNKMqsGPp9bSHhvyzgKlHqYfNlL9f/s200/59310537402__D656F3DB-EC45-4B02-A651-083EA0B3C103.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
I thought it was alone. Each morning while I sat on the couch in our room at a mountain resort my husband and I rented, I gazed through the window at a ski chair. It hung alone facing downslope, suspended between seasons. No snow would arrive for a couple of months, and the summer mountain bikers and view seekers had all gone home.<br />
<br />
Did the ski lift chair feel useless, unenjoyed, angry about how the life it previously led had ceased? This picture stirred something familiar inside of me, so I brought it to prayer, expressing to God my frustration with sometimes sensing I have no purpose, the impatience of waiting to be used by him, the loneliness of feeling unseen.<br />
<br />
Do you see me waiting here?<br />
Do you hear my prayer to find my purpose, to gain my footing when life as I knew it stopped?<br />
Do you care?<br />
<br />
Our last morning in the mountains, I brought my coffee over to the L-shaped couch, pulled a blanket over me to sink into some cozy quiet. This time, however, I sat in a different spot from where I'd been the previous mornings. From this small shift in position, my view out the window changed, and I gained a different perspective.<br />
<br />
My heart leapt upon seeing what I saw. Across from the ski chair hung another chair suspended from the cable facing up the ski hill. They seemed to be looking at each other.<br />
<br />
Relief washed over me as I realized the ski chair was not alone! Never, ever was it alone.<br />
<br />
And neither am I.<br />
<br /><i><br /></i>Diane Carver Mann, 2020Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-626207374834518992022-10-24T13:31:00.001-07:002022-10-25T08:42:02.374-07:00What Frank Did, For Me<p>I took a walk one afternoon around the small mountain town I call home on the weekends. I passed cabins I recognized and cabins it seemed I was seeing for the very first time. I walked at a fast pace, trying to burn some anxious energy that left me feeling uneasy.</p><p></p><p>On the highest street in town, a cul-de-sac with homes perched on the mountain's edge offering vast views, I approached Frank, who, leaning on his walker, took slow, small, deliberate steps. Frank's memory is fading, I'm told, his knees are weakened, and at 90-plus years old, he appears fragile. </p><p>I stopped just as I was about to pass by him. "Frank," I said, "I saw a video on Facebook of you singing 'Tomorrow,' and I enjoyed it so!" </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzi84MemUYSeICGmUJUiy-B8YjiQlvUv49pe-9tk_3LFoVQiffpVhSDW7wqTTGN--lSAd0Bvxk2WklxRMiY8NcixpuRcjSPbX4cUKUNqCouDF49Gtcco6mDxtXrkCquIKn-cFmvyh4ooCMcsGyKnVOqCMc7G_h6MQ8aTisHVWiAqcUnhPvSOcHlw25g/s733/%20view.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="733" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzi84MemUYSeICGmUJUiy-B8YjiQlvUv49pe-9tk_3LFoVQiffpVhSDW7wqTTGN--lSAd0Bvxk2WklxRMiY8NcixpuRcjSPbX4cUKUNqCouDF49Gtcco6mDxtXrkCquIKn-cFmvyh4ooCMcsGyKnVOqCMc7G_h6MQ8aTisHVWiAqcUnhPvSOcHlw25g/s320/%20view.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>His face lit up at my remark, and he broke into song. He sang as though he were on stage with a riveted audience enjoying his talent. Such hope and confidence he exuded with each word. Frank took an eloquent bow at the end of his performance. "That's from the musical 'Annie,'" he said. "I don't recall much of the musical, but I do remember the song." I clapped and smiled and thanked Frank for his lovely offering. He continued down the street, while I raced up the street. On my way back down, I noticed Frank had advanced not much farther from where he was when he sang "Tomorrow" to me.</p><p>Again I stopped. "I remember your singing 'To Dream the Impossible Dream' at a gathering we had at the clubhouse years ago. That was lovely!" I said, hinting at the possibility of an encore performance. </p><p>Of course he began to sing, "To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, to bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go." On he sang, bathing me in the music, while my heart sang along.</p><p>"This is my quest," he sang, "to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far." Again, an eloquent bow from Frank and my adoring applause. </p><p>I suppose we both offered each other something that afternoon, something unexpected and unexplainable, a gift that now lives in me.</p><p>Normally I feel bad passing a person who can't walk fast, who has some kind of handicap slowing them down, and I'll tend to walk more slowly to not make them feel bad. But this was not the case that day. I continued on, trusting that Frank was finding all the good while going the speed he could go, and I was free to go my speed, to be where I am on life's journey. Sooner than I, more than likely, Frank will be walking and skipping on streets of gold, with no aid, no pain, and a clear mind. Meanwhile, here, my steps may become slower and my mind less sharp.</p><p>I desire as I age to emanate the hope Frank displayed and that, though I may not remember the details of all that's happened in the past, or the full "musical," I'll remember the song and the spirit of the song and pass it along to others, offering them a vast view of hope for tomorrow. </p><p>Just like Frank did, for me.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-57552058188763720152022-05-25T12:46:00.009-07:002022-05-25T13:21:50.752-07:00Taste, and See<div class="separator"></div><div class="separator"></div><div class="separator"></div><p><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">On a wintry Saturday, I baked cinnamon maple scones at our cabin, using a new-to-me recipe. They were so yummy, I was eager to share them at our church potluck breakfast the following morning. But I coughed through the night, and it became clear neither I nor my husband would be attending church that Sunday. I was disappointed to miss blessing my church friends with my flavorful scones.</span></p><p></p><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Before driving down the mountain, we parked our car in town to take a short walk around the lake. Two ladies we recognized sat at a picnic table across the road. “Do you want some scones?” I yelled through my mask with my hoarse, raspy voice. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">“Absolutely, yes, we do!” Kathy and Donna replied.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">My husband retrieved the container holding the scones from the car and carried the treats across the road to our excited friends. “Take two!” I called over.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">“Can we have three each?” they hollered back.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9P2RdKWKLK7PVPHJVoSWKWQNSklQ0ybKPiQPwCTrxg6V2iISw5Rsi3RRBkQxP_ElftjtHZini4ZT7eUxjT4-LZ4NLTOXvj4RXroE2msmv1KwCm8q1EABbeLAAE7EdTQ75H0xKLHob0CzoARhEjwK3vPJHzd6OUOO-SxJ76ufuKBfJVINv1O81PpmqHA/s1024/IV20050297_36_0.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9P2RdKWKLK7PVPHJVoSWKWQNSklQ0ybKPiQPwCTrxg6V2iISw5Rsi3RRBkQxP_ElftjtHZini4ZT7eUxjT4-LZ4NLTOXvj4RXroE2msmv1KwCm8q1EABbeLAAE7EdTQ75H0xKLHob0CzoARhEjwK3vPJHzd6OUOO-SxJ76ufuKBfJVINv1O81PpmqHA/w400-h266/IV20050297_36_0.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">We continued our walk around the lake, and upon arriving back to our car, our friends let us know how much they enjoyed the delicious pastries. I don't know whose joy was more full, Kathy and Donna's in savoring the scones, or mine, in getting to share them. </span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><span face="Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; text-align: left;">There’s a taste-and-see simplicity I experience when I share what I’ve baked. I don’t have weighty expectations on myself to “be somebody” in the kitchen, to become known as “Diane the baker.” It is as simple as, “Here’s something I’ve made that is good. I hope it blesses you.”</span><span face="Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; text-align: left;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: verdana; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: verdana; font-size: large; text-align: left;">I was due to deliver a set of six benedictions this week for the Black Barn, an online community I belong to. I’d written and rewritten many and could not decide which ones to submit. The angst I experienced squeezed the joy out of writing and anticipating blessing others with my offerings. I tell myself, oh, but this is not a scoop of dough; it’s a scoop of my heart. Of course it’s going to be painful.</span></div><h5 dir="ltr" style="color: #4d5461; font-weight: 300; letter-spacing: -0.5px; line-height: 29px; margin: 0px 0px 10px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></h5><h5 dir="ltr" style="font-weight: 300; letter-spacing: -0.5px; line-height: 29px; margin: 0px 0px 10px;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: x-large;">Perhaps my “of course” is off course.</span><br /></span></h5><p style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><a class="magnific fr-fic fr-fir fr-dii lightbox-image-container" data-effect="mfp-zoom-in" href="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/37358658/Companion.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" style="color: #e9cf8b; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; float: right; margin: 40px 0px 40px 45px; text-decoration: none;"><img class="fr-fic attachment fr-fir fr-dii" data-asset-id="37358658" data-original-image="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/37358658/Companion.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" src="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/37358658/Companion.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format&w=1400&h=1400&fit=max&impolicy=ResizeCrop&constraint=downsize&aspect=fit" style="border: 0px; display: inline-block; float: right; height: auto; margin: 0px; max-width: calc(100% - 5px); position: relative; vertical-align: bottom; width: 347px;" /></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">I learned recently the word "companion" is derived from Latin and, at its core, it denotes someone who is present to you "with bread." As we are present to each other on this journey, we offer life-giving nurture and enjoyment, friend to friend. We bring who we are and what God has given us to offer. How good it is to have someone fully present to you; how much better when together you “break bread,” when together you unwrap and savor the good gifts God has given you. Together, we celebrate the Giver of the gifts. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Again and again my thoughts return to the simplicity of baking something then sharing it, with a spirit of, “Taste and see the goodness!” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">I wonder what it would be like to experience such freedom as I weave words together and then share them. I wonder what kind of companionship I could bring to others, free from self-judgment about what I bring to the table. And I wonder whether God is inviting me to taste this kind of freedom, and to see that it is good.</span></p><h3 style="color: #4d5461; font-weight: 300; letter-spacing: -0.5px; line-height: 36px; margin: 30px 0px 10px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">diane mann, 2022</span></h3><h3 style="color: #4d5461; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 32px; font-weight: 300; letter-spacing: -0.5px; line-height: 36px; margin: 30px 0px 10px;"><br /></h3>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-13405454581776900592021-07-01T13:42:00.001-07:002021-07-01T13:45:01.399-07:00A Beauty, All Its Own<p> </p><h5 dir="ltr" style="color: #4d5461; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 24px; font-weight: 300; letter-spacing: -0.5px; line-height: 29px; margin: 0px 0px 10px;">“I just don't see it, Daddy,” I said. “It looks ugly to me.” I stood watching my dad gaze in adoration over the desert landscape, his eyes resting in reverence upon what stretched before him.</h5><h5 dir="ltr" style="color: #4d5461; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 24px; font-weight: 300; letter-spacing: -0.5px; line-height: 29px; margin: 0px 0px 10px;"><span style="color: #f4c235;"><span style="font-weight: 700;">“The desert has a beauty all its own, Diana.” </span></span></h5><h5 dir="ltr" style="color: #4d5461; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 24px; font-weight: 300; letter-spacing: -0.5px; line-height: 29px; margin: 0px 0px 10px;">I was ten years old and enjoyed camping in the desert, scrambling over rock formations but saw nothing of beauty in the dusty landscape, cacti, and brittle shrubs. The view, in my eyes, was something to be tolerated, rather than enjoyed.</h5><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><a class="magnific fr-fic fr-fir fr-dii lightbox-image-container" data-effect="mfp-zoom-in" href="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/25525119/1624555041271.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" style="color: #e9cf8b; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; float: right; margin: 40px 0px 40px 45px; text-decoration: none;"><img class="fr-fic attachment fr-fir fr-dii" data-asset-id="25525119" data-original-image="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/25525119/1624555041271.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" src="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/25525119/1624555041271.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format&w=1400&h=1400&fit=max" style="border: 0px; display: inline-block; float: right; height: 361.023px; margin: 0px; max-width: calc(100% - 5px); position: relative; vertical-align: bottom; width: 481px;" width="624" /></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">I never intended to become a student of the desert, but a decade ago my job as a court reporter led me to familiarize myself with all things desert as I took on an assignment to report public meetings held several times a year by the Desert Advisory Council, part of the Bureau of Land Management. The Council's duty is to gather information from the public to inform the Bureau of how their land-management decisions and plans affect people holding various interests in the desert.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">Though many interests are represented among the positions on the Council – wildlife, renewable energy, recreation, off-highway vehicles, farming, mining, Native cultural interests, wildlife habitat and conservation – each person who is part of these meetings has a unique affection for the California desert. One of the hopes expressed by the Council is that people will not just see this vast landscape as a place to just drive through on their way to somewhere else, but to slow down and appreciate what the desert offers, to see up close what it is made of, its history, geology, resources, and ecologic systems.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">The day before each meeting, I attend a field trip with the Council and the public, where we visit different sites that will be discussed at the next day's meeting. This affords me an opportunity to get to know the people who will be speaking the next day and familiarize myself with names of sites, projects, plants, and species that were previously foreign to me.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">Just a gas tank to the north of where I live sits the loved-by-me Sierra Nevada Mountain Range, the area explored by John Muir, who wrote words of praise about the mountain range and its good effects on us.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">But between my home and those glorious mountains sits a vast desert I previously saw as a wasteland.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">As I look out the car window on my drive north to the Sierras, where towering pines and emerald glacial lakes await me, I now appreciate the harsh beauty of the vast desert, raw and exposed and not afraid to show me its not-so-pretty parts, somehow beckoning me to live more authentically. I see nuanced colors I’d previously ignored, and I wonder how I ever viewed the desert as devoid of beauty.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">I see shrubs scattered over the landscape, with complex root systems that join with each other deep underground, forming their own internet! If one shrub becomes diseased, it sends out messages to the others so they can produce defenses against the threat they've been warned about.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">I see solar plants that produce clean energy but are drawing upon groundwater deep below the earth's surface, water that's been flowing for tens of thousands of years and needs to be considered before too much development is planned on the surface.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">I see Native American cultural resources, like the line in the sand I visited toward San Diego. An ancient tribe used to make a pilgrimage once a year to worship their god they saw as Creator. A while into their journey, a line was etched into the sand, now sun-baked and preserved for us to learn from. The story is passed down that, before the pilgrims would go any further on their journey, this was the space where unforgiveness was to be laid down. One could not make the journey with the extra weight on them so must leave behind the desire to retaliate against another before taking one more step.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">I see rotting, vacant homes, weather beaten and barely standing. I now know that, if you find a piece of trash or abandoned property in the desert that has been there over 50 years, it is considered a historical artifact, and by law you are not allowed to move it! Rusted-out automobiles and tin cans tell a story.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><a class="magnific fr-fic fr-fil fr-dii lightbox-image-container" data-effect="mfp-zoom-in" href="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/25524865/1624554753058.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" style="color: #e9cf8b; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; float: left; margin: 40px 45px 40px 0px; text-decoration: none;"><img class="fr-fic attachment fr-fil fr-dii" data-asset-id="25524865" data-original-image="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/25524865/1624554753058.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" src="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/25524865/1624554753058.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format&w=1400&h=1400&fit=max" style="border: 0px; display: inline-block; float: left; height: 328.608px; margin: 0px; max-width: calc(100% - 5px); position: relative; vertical-align: bottom; width: 423px;" width="580" /></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">I see dirt roads that lead to rockhounding sites, where those who collect rocks impress me with their passion and dedication to their hobby. While many of us look up in amazement – at the grandeur of mountains or the sky's expanse – rockhounds look down and are equally amazed at what they find. I've not seen a rockhound talk about their love of rocks without trying to hold back tears as they speak.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">As I pay close attention to the people I listen to in this unique assignment, I'm reminded of my Dad with that look in his eye as he enjoyed the desert's beauty. Oh, if he were still here on earth, I'd love to tell him what I see now. When my father was 64, he suffered a fall and endured 19 months of being completely paralyzed and ventilator dependent, experiencing his own harsh desert journey through quadriplegia. After he died, I wrote a song about him. Here is the chorus: </p><blockquote style="border-left-style: none; color: #6f7682; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18px; font-style: italic; line-height: 26px; margin: 50px 0px 50px 50px; padding-left: 10px; position: relative;"><p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px 0px 24px;">“The desert has a beauty all its own</p><p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px 0px 24px;">It’s not the mountains we adore</p><p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px 0px 24px;">No tall trees, no sandy shores</p><p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px 0px 24px;">Just look closer, take some time</p><p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px 0px 24px;">Feel the wind, hear the rhyme</p><p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px 0px 24px;">Dry earth below, blue sky above</p><p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px 0px 24px;">Clay-colored rocks to climb upon</p><p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px 0px 24px;">Stop to see what I see, then you'll know what I know </p><p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0px;">The desert has a beauty all its own.”</p></blockquote><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">A beauty all its own. That is a refrain that is sometimes difficult to remember or believe. Lately, I've been dividing life into pre-pandemic time, pandemic time, and gratefully, post-pandemic time. The pandemic was something we endured (and for some are still enduring), a desert highway in many ways, a wasteland of space through which we traveled with visions of just getting through to the other side.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><a class="magnific fr-fic fr-fir fr-dii lightbox-image-container" data-effect="mfp-zoom-in" href="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/25525168/1624555103938.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" style="color: #e9cf8b; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; float: right; margin: 40px 0px 40px 45px; text-decoration: none;"><img class="fr-fic attachment fr-fir fr-dii" data-asset-id="25525168" data-original-image="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/25525168/1624555103938.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" src="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/25525168/1624555103938.png?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format&w=1400&h=1400&fit=max" style="border: 0px; display: inline-block; float: right; height: 258.636px; margin: 0px; max-width: calc(100% - 5px); position: relative; vertical-align: bottom; width: 493px;" width="624" /></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">But if we stop to reflect, we will find it was more than a space of barren, dry land. There were people we connected with who sent encouragement from afar; ancient, life-giving springs below ground that made us dig deep to reach them; lines drawn, where we were challenged to let go of deep-seated unforgiveness, adopting understanding instead; gems we picked up along the way; and artifacts, stories of faith we left behind for Christ-followers in the future, who will look for signs of how we endured, believers we will one day surround as a cloud of witnesses.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">May the Lord give us eyes to see what He sees, so we will know what He knows. </p><h3 dir="ltr" style="color: #4d5461; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 32px; font-weight: 300; letter-spacing: -0.5px; line-height: 36px; margin: 30px 0px 10px;">I wonder, as the mountains open up before us and the long, dusty road of the pandemic is appearing in the rear-view mirror, what can you reflect on that magnifies your appreciation for beauty found in dry places? How does this noticing lead you to worship?</h3><div><span face="Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(20, 25, 33); color: #141921; font-size: 19px;">Last Image: "Desert in Rearview Mirror" by Vivian Chepourkoff Hayes. </span></div>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-30601346249603472072021-03-13T09:06:00.001-08:002021-03-13T09:07:48.059-08:00Uncontained<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOl-WA1RCcAvdxOjM6MAuxYeC83mH3PMRxMmeZlISggKuhYW8skBYRcc8JlCgVMPXcnwNxqUY_FQiJV7EBt3ohgIZ1sNCYOYwpBDRU-MGIvzi-5WiXroot3lpqT-6tmb6AhvrRZCXhxCB/s1280/glitters-1868276_1280.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOl-WA1RCcAvdxOjM6MAuxYeC83mH3PMRxMmeZlISggKuhYW8skBYRcc8JlCgVMPXcnwNxqUY_FQiJV7EBt3ohgIZ1sNCYOYwpBDRU-MGIvzi-5WiXroot3lpqT-6tmb6AhvrRZCXhxCB/s320/glitters-1868276_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />It's a small thing, really. But it's catching my eye at unexpected times, in unexpected places, and I can't seem to shake it.</span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over a year ago, I set up a card table in my family room and covered it with craft supplies––paper, stickers, glue, jeweled embellishments, decorative tape, ribbons, and glitter. Yes, glitter, fine red glitter, contained and congregated in a small jar. When family gathered at my house, some accepted the invitation to sit at the craft table to play and create valentine cards.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No one played harder than Calvin, my three-year-old grandson. To him, there was no such thing as sprinkling glitter, only pouring glitter. Red specks generously billowed about him, with just a fraction landing on their intended target. Calvin happily created a brightly colored, sparkly, shiny, sticky, beautiful mess. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">During February, it was a mess I enjoyed. But at month's end, I bagged up the craft supplies and put away the card table, taking broom, dust cloth, and vacuum to the area, cleaning it up as best I could. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Like sand that comes home from the beach with you, later found in your children's ears and hair, in the creases of your car, the bottom of your purse and your washing machine, my red glitter inhabited unlikely spaces. It rested between and within books on the shelves, couch cushions, edges and ledges of my home. I can't trace their journey, but some of those invasive red flakes traveled to my mountain cabin fifty miles away. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Though they sparkle with the same brightness as they did the day I bought them, now when the shiny specks catch my eye, they no longer hold the beautiful memory of fun times at our craft table. Instead they carry condemnation. They tell me I am sloppy, that I always leave things undone, and that there's no hope for me. They were intended to embellish cards celebrating love, yet now, weightless as they are, they transport heavy, damning messages: </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">I can't contain my glitter. I can't contain me. I haven't finished cleaning up from a project I started 13 months ago. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt;">How dare I move on to the next thing, not having tidied up from the last thing? The accusations fly and land me in a decades-old memory.</span> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I returned home from Los Angeles, where I had completed a two-day examination to become a certified court reporter. I was tired but elated, floating on a wave of emotions, and still dressed in an outfit that made 20-year-old me look and feel professional, competent, legitimate. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"How did it go?" my dad asked from his chair in the corner of the living room, while I was just a few steps into the entryway. Through a beaming smile I told him how well I believed I had done, how relieved I was that the test I worked two years to prepare for was behind me. My words spilled out.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Having overheard me describe my time, my mom marched from the kitchen and planted herself a foot from me with her fisted hands on her hips. She was a beautiful woman, but the anger scribbled across her face in this moment blotted out any signs of that beauty. "Yeah, but is your room clean?" The words, uncontained, flew from the jar. Like the glitter I still can't clean up, they were red, they landed in unintended spaces, and just when I think I’ve remembered the last of them, they catch my attention yet again. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anymore, it doesn't really matter what comes after the "Yeah, but." I can quickly render as illegitimate the ideas that rise up in me. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh, I’ll send Carol a card,” I think to myself. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>“Yeah, but what about Shirley?”</i> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’ll weave those thoughts that have been dancing through my mind into a poem,” then, </span><i><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yeah, but what about that piece you never finished, or those writings you thought about but never even started?” </span></i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I long to speak hope into others during this weary, drawn-out time of the Covid pandemic. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>“Yeah, but I myself am often weary and discouraged,” </i>and,<i> “Yeah, but there are so many voices out there hoping to bring light into dark places.</i>" </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The "yeah-buts" circulate about and get too much time on my mind's stage. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">From the ampitheatre of Earth, I look up at the night sky and see the stars, still multiplying, God lavishing the universe with sparkles. They swirl and float, those captivating curlicues, brightening my dim eyes, satisfying my thirst for wonder and awe. If there is more room for stars in the sky, is there space for a sparkle, a fleck of light, another word carrying a glimmer of hope? Can I yield to God's pouring into me then through me words that bring courage, trusting they will land on the hearts of those who need them? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A scene I recall from a 9/11 documentary re-enacts two men buried deep under rubble from an exploded building next to the World Trade Center towers. The men lay injured and trapped a good distance from each other. A small stream of light from above squeezing through the rubble could be seen by one of the men, while the light's ray was blocked from his comrade’s view. They knew as long as there was light, there was an opening through which someone could reach them, a sliver of hope. The man who could see the light kept reassuring his friend of its existence, until the rescuers reached them.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I look down in church on Sunday, and my eye catches a miniscule red sparkle in the center of my phone. I sigh. Again I look down, this time at a Bible placed on the end of the pew. White glitter, catching the light, is strewn across its cover. I look up to see the pastor's wife has decorated the sanctuary for winter, with glimmering snowflakes resting on green pine boughs surrounding the ceiling’s edge. I smile to realize she also could not contain her glitter. It feels like hope, for me, to know that others move forward beautifying the world with their creative ideas, even though they may leave a bit of a mess behind. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If I can see the sparkle when you can't and you can see it when I can't, let's tell each other about it, shall we? Let's remind each other of the light, even if just a flicker.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's no small thing, really.</span></p><p><span id="docs-internal-guid-68f3b52c-7fff-76c9-12d8-1c22ec2471f1"></span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></p>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-53909003840198126902020-10-10T10:46:00.001-07:002020-10-10T10:46:44.737-07:00Repositioned<img alt="undefined" class="mfp-img" height="320" src="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/14985035/IMG_0084.jpg?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(71, 80, 92); color: #47505c; display: block; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 13px; height: auto; line-height: 0; margin: 0px auto; max-height: 765px; max-width: 100%; padding: 40px 0px; width: auto;" width="240" /><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">It's been fun this week, exchanging hilarious stories on Facebook after I've shared the latest ditsy things I've done. Sunday, I grabbed a bottle of Downey Wrinkle Release from the hall cupboard. I sprayed my oatmeal-colored sweater several times, smoothing over the wrinkles with my hands. It wasn't working as well as usual, I noticed, so doused the sweater again and again. The smell of bleach reached my nose, and I looked at the bottle's label to find I had really been using a foaming bathroom cleanser with bleach! Stories like this must be shared, so I instantly posted a picture of my newly tie-dyed sweater to Facebook, where I enjoyed being laughed with and hearing of other people's foibles. </p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">This morning, Tuesday, I made myself coffee from my Keurig, like I do most mornings. Unlike most mornings, I placed the mug under the spout, pressed the button, and immediately the mug started overflowing, spilling coffee over the countertop. Upon closer inspection, I saw I had placed the mug under the spout upside down, as in bottom side up. Another Facebook post, more LOLs, more stories shared.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a class="magnific fr-fic fr-fil fr-dii lightbox-image-container" data-effect="mfp-zoom-in" href="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/14984815/IMG_0085.jpg?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" style="color: #e9cf8b; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 40px; text-decoration: none;"><img class="fr-fic attachment fr-fil fr-dii" data-asset-id="14984815" data-original-image="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/14984815/IMG_0085.jpg?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" src="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/14984815/IMG_0085.jpg?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format&w=1400&h=1400&fit=max" style="animation: FadeIn 0.4s ease-out; border: 0px; display: inline-block; float: left; height: auto !important; margin: 0px; max-width: calc(100% - 5px); position: relative; vertical-align: bottom; width: 440px;" /></a></div><p style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-size: 18.999998092651367px;">I've done some funny accidental things in my life, from wearing two different shoes in public, to being affectionate with a man I mistook for my husband in a crowded elevator. He was much more gracious than the ballcap-and-windbreaker-wearing bearded man in the self checkout at Wal-Mart, who after my accidental hug and sincere apology, refused to laugh with me and ran from the store, not looking back.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">While on the outside, I am laughing, after this morning's coffee mishap, I keep having this not-funny conversation in my head: If you want to feel, "ept," just hang around me. I'm so inept.</p><h3 dir="ltr" style="color: #47505c; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 32px; font-weight: 300; letter-spacing: -0.5px; line-height: 36px; margin: 30px 0px 10px;">That is harsh, is it not? </h3><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">Why am I exceptionally scattered this week? The calendar reminds me that five years ago I saw my mom alive and well for the last time. She walked into my house with a friend, without knocking—again. I stayed in the kitchen, fuming over her violating my well-defined boundaries, while my daughters doted over her near the front door. I hugged Linda, the friend she brought, and withheld a hug from my mom. Before she left, we discussed when we would have time to bake pumpkin bread together, and I pointed out to her a Mother's Day card on the counter I hadn't given to her. "I finally found it," I said, having misplaced it after purchasing it in May. "It's the prettiest one I've ever bought you, but I haven't signed it yet, so I will give it to you after I write something on it." </p><p style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><a class="magnific fr-fic fr-fir fr-dii lightbox-image-container" data-effect="mfp-zoom-in" href="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/14984999/roses-4125558_1920.jpg?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" style="clear: left; color: #e9cf8b; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 40px; text-decoration: none;"><img class="fr-fic attachment fr-fir fr-dii" data-asset-id="14984999" data-original-image="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/14984999/roses-4125558_1920.jpg?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" height="275" src="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/14984999/roses-4125558_1920.jpg?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format&w=1400&h=1400&fit=max" style="animation: FadeIn 0.4s ease-out; border: 0px; display: inline-block; float: right; height: auto !important; margin: 0px; max-width: calc(100% - 5px); position: relative; vertical-align: bottom; width: 408px;" width="412" /></a></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">Two days later she fell while walking to the church bus during a senior field trip. Her walker got stuck in a crack on hilly pavement, and she flipped, landing on her head. The impact caused a catastrophic brain bleed that within a few minutes led to her being unconscious. She was helicoptered to a hospital and attached to life support, which kept her breathing the next couple days, until family could all arrive to say goodbye. I whispered in her ear before the medical team unplugged her, "I forgive you. I hope you forgive me, too." I did keep my promise and gave her the pretty Mother's Day card, signed, setting it next to her in her coffin.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">This is the week each year I am spacier than normal, less aware of my surroundings, slogging through life in a fog. Grief disorients me, and these anniversaries of loss always sneak up on me unaware. </p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">"Give yourself grace," people say to me, and I have said it to others. But I'm not the source of grace and can't seem to brew up enough for myself, or for anyone else. Yet I know—how I know—a softer gaze is needed, on myself, and on my mom, who sometimes scooched her way through my front door and over the well-meaning fences I'd built. A nicer rule-breaker you've never met!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a class="magnific fr-fic fr-fil fr-dii lightbox-image-container" data-effect="mfp-zoom-in" href="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/14984913/IMG_0086.jpg?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" style="color: #e9cf8b; cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; margin-top: 40px; text-decoration: none;"><img class="fr-fic attachment fr-fil fr-dii" data-asset-id="14984913" data-original-image="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/14984913/IMG_0086.jpg?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format" src="https://media1-production-mightynetworks.imgix.net/asset/14984913/IMG_0086.jpg?ixlib=rails-0.3.0&fm=jpg&q=75&auto=format&w=1400&h=1400&fit=max" style="animation: FadeIn 0.4s ease-out; border: 0px; display: inline-block; float: left; height: auto !important; margin: 0px; max-width: calc(100% - 5px); position: relative; vertical-align: bottom; width: 426px;" /></a></div><p style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"></p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">The ache feels like a hollow longing in my chest, and my eyes leak off and on throughout the day. But I'm not turning away from letting myself feel the regret of the withheld hug, not this year.</p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;">I sit and move through the day with Jesus, this grieving heart facing toward Him, exposed, empty, not upside down, like my coffee mug. Here, His grace pours into me. My cup is being filled, not resisting what Christ is offering. I sense His softer gaze upon me. Repositioned under the fount of grace, I am full to the brim, even overflowing. </p><p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(23, 30, 40); color: #171e28; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 18.999998092651367px; margin: 0px 0px 24px;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><em>I'm letting </em></span><em><span style="font-weight: 700;"><em>m</em>y regret usher me into a place where I am re-greeted by grace. There is no room for harshness, here.</span></em></p><h3 dir="ltr" style="color: #47505c; font-family: Avenir, "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji"; font-size: 32px; font-weight: 300; letter-spacing: -0.5px; line-height: 36px; margin: 30px 0px 10px;">Is there an area in your life you need Christ's gaze upon you? Something you've refused to acknowledge before God? <span style="font-size: 32px;">Perhaps you, too, see the need to reposition yourself under grace's fount. </span></h3><p><br /></p>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-86625075133541678492020-08-08T13:12:00.006-07:002020-08-08T22:12:50.488-07:00Postcards, From Home<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTvg1Wg5IdpvAXWGxCEpgtSZcBBk12vPtm5e7IkONk0dorqhgvXlXYXP7FVzLpKO2gpt8WWVddSCi39Koh9VKymfiyuJhvtkrZsCDkpygLGYn7PPxXyGaiSAEh6uSlm7OjDnf7zc32Tby/s640/IMG_9537.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOTvg1Wg5IdpvAXWGxCEpgtSZcBBk12vPtm5e7IkONk0dorqhgvXlXYXP7FVzLpKO2gpt8WWVddSCi39Koh9VKymfiyuJhvtkrZsCDkpygLGYn7PPxXyGaiSAEh6uSlm7OjDnf7zc32Tby/w307-h410/IMG_9537.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><p>My husband, upon delivering my coffee in bed this morning, noticed my new, summery PJs. Drawings of mountains, postcards, beaches, bikes, and written messages decorate the sleepwear in pleasant pastels.</p><p>"Hey, you've got bikes on your pajamas!" he noted, which seemed significant because we just purchased a bike for me.</p><p>After he left the bedroom, my eyes and heart landed on words written on my pajama pants: "Wish you were here."</p><p>The sentiment of that longing, this place we are in, fitting. Words scribbled across millions of postcards delivered over the world, now so weighty, so...wishful.</p><p>There will be no big trips for me this year, but today I sit in gratitude for what I've been given, here, at home. I do this most mornings, asking God to show me what to remember to give thanks for. What does He want me to not miss? What does he want me to share with others?</p><p>Today, in my mind, I step into a souvenir shop at a vacation destination. Eyeing the postcard rack, I seek a picture reflective of the gifts of yesterday, here, while you, my friends and family, are not here. You more than likely are nestled into your own homes, seeking shelter from the virus, searching for what is lovely and meaningful in your surroundings. My eyes rest on a couple of scenes that reflect my time here, on this summer non-vacation. </p><p>Can this be adventure, this time looking longer and with more love at the space I've occupied for decades? Is it worth writing home about? Or in this case, writing from home about?</p><p>In my journal I draw both sides of a blank postcard. I fill in one side with a friend's name and address, adding a postage stamp. What would I tell her, about yesterday, in this cramped writing area on the postcard? I describe my time on the back patio last night, the twinkling lights, the fountain running, a music playlist offering a summer vibe. "<i>Wish I could share this with you,</i>" I write, then sign my name. On the photo side of the postcard, I etch out my rendition of the idyllic scene from last night.</p><p>Next I write to Paula, my sister who lives in Canada, so very far from me. I draw a bicycle on the front then write on the back, "You won't believe it, but I bought a bike! It is the brightest green you ever saw. The best thing is, there is a motor to assist my pedaling and to help me zoom up hills! How I <i>wish you were here </i>so I could share it with you. We'd have so many laughs!" </p><p>My stationery drawer holds several postcards selected from past vacations, postcards I never sent. Some I even wrote on but never took time to mail. There's one thanking my mom's friend Shirley for baking our wedding cake! We bought it on our honeymoon in Alaska 37 years ago. How surprised Shirley would be to receive that card now!</p><p>I wonder tomorrow, when I reflect upon today, what memory I will want to celebrate by sharing it with another. </p><p>Yes, "Adventure awaits," and "Adventure is out there," but is it not also right now, right here, waiting to be had? </p><p>Yes, I say, yes. </p><p>Whatever joy this day offers, whatever memories it etches that beg to be remembered, there will be some experiences that make me think of you. My heart will reach across the miles, with a bit of an ache, <i>wishing you were here</i>.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-68272559889601036652020-07-07T08:34:00.000-07:002020-07-07T16:54:47.465-07:00The Glad GiverShe handed me a cup of water. I was exercising at my gym and forgot my to bring my own water bottle, and due to the new rules to prevent spreading the coronavirus, we clients could no longer touch the water cooler.<br />
<br />
"Your job description certainly has expanded during this pandemic," I said to Coach Eleisha as I received the drink she brought me from across the fitness center. Face masked, she nodded her head in agreement. I caught that smile in her eyes when she said, "Yes, but I am happy to serve."<br />
<br />
She seemed to mean it.<br />
<br />
I went on a three-day cruise with my mom and sisters a couple of decades ago. The ship's crew included workers from around the world. Many we spoke with expressed gratitude for their jobs and the ability to help their families back home by sending money. There was joy in their service, whether they placed a plate of food before us, refilled drinks, performed, or created fun designs out of towels.<br />
<br />
I stood in a line at a service desk on the ship, and next to me stood a sign that read, "We are happy to serve you." Never before had I been the recipient of service so gladly given.<br />
<br />
They mean it, I realized.<br />
<br />
I scan my mind to look for times I've gladly given, offerings not absent of effort or sacrifice but given with cheer.<br />
<br />
The time I came upon the last two packages of toilet paper in the grocery store and saw a woman on the hunt for the same. We didn't speak the same language as each other, but I waved her over, handed her the last pack, and we gave each other high-fives. We stood in the checkout line, while she in Spanish expressed glee at being able to find toilet paper. Giggles, smiles, knowing nods. I realized we shouldn't have touched then dug in my purse for some hand sanitizer I gladly gifted to her.<br />
<br />
<i>"God loves a cheerful giver." II Cor. 9:7 </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
God Himself gives cheerfully to us, and how I sense His pleasure when He sees us do the same for each other.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Can you bring to mind times you've received from a cheerful giver? Times you, yourself, have given cheerfully?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>When have you sensed joy both in the giving and receiving? Think upon these things, and it will bring a smile to your face. </i><br />
<br />
And if this reflection blessed you in any way, please know it is my pleasure to offer it to you, like that cup of fresh water offered to me. I am happy to serve.<br />
<br />
I mean it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-53852317174206379112020-07-04T11:13:00.002-07:002020-07-04T11:16:27.848-07:00Welcome<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixcJTlgaWVM6nqDxx9S0TIluw1bRYf-3ATj9iRPNBfztcUjyrlxve4_INi-p4MeBCGvNxC9fUuEFHWL3gQp5mh1KaTbeUyldDNXH7MDW3aGx-_u6SYD0kHbdb_dr4NV6ioRyMSpCHPhPKT/s1600/black+barn+screenshot.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="828" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixcJTlgaWVM6nqDxx9S0TIluw1bRYf-3ATj9iRPNBfztcUjyrlxve4_INi-p4MeBCGvNxC9fUuEFHWL3gQp5mh1KaTbeUyldDNXH7MDW3aGx-_u6SYD0kHbdb_dr4NV6ioRyMSpCHPhPKT/s200/black+barn+screenshot.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Black Barn at Maplehurst</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I see the temptation in her eyes<br />
To blur over my story<br />
I'm taking too long to tell<br />
To this, my dear friend<br />
Who listens so well<br />
<br />
There's this book<br />
And an author<br />
Who was led to a place<br />
She talks about it in the book<br />
She created a monthly care package<br />
I subscribed<br />
<br />
The only thing keeping my friend<br />
Engaged in our conversation<br />
Is my passion<br />
The light in my eyes<br />
The tones of delight<br />
I struggle<br />
To describe anything linearly<br />
But I try<br />
<br />
There's a real barn<br />
Where retreats and classes happen<br />
Where good things take place<br />
Spiritual things<br />
Creative things<br />
It's a place<br />
Built with a dream<br />
To welcome people<br />
To celebrate life and art and faith<br />
<br />
I signed up for the care package<br />
And was invited to the virtual Black Barn<br />
A trial of sorts<br />
Before the online Barn doors opened wide<br />
It's a place of caring intention<br />
A slower, more spacious place<br />
<br />
There I receive<br />
There I give<br />
Conversations are created<br />
Works of art celebrated<br />
Benedictions given<br />
Infusing good words, blessings<br />
Into and over me<br />
<br />
I've come to care<br />
For those I've met there<br />
In a way that says<br />
"I will carry your burdens with you,"<br />
And, "I will celebrate and pay witness to what you are noticing."<br />
<br />
Most live far from me<br />
But have become close<br />
Soul friends<br />
Let's-grow friends<br />
Let's-water-and-tend-to-this-thing-<br />
and-wait-to-see-what-happens friends<br />
<br />
Someone called us cultivators<br />
No one has ever referred to me as a cultivator<br />
Not until now<br />
But we were invited to pour into this space<br />
Even as we were being poured into<br />
<br />
We are witnessing others enter the barn doors<br />
We are cheering them<br />
Ushering them in<br />
With hopes they too will find something<br />
Very Special here<br />
<br />
"Thank you," I say<br />
To my listening friend<br />
"I know I talk about the Black Barn a lot!"<br />
She tells me to talk about it all I want<br />
How she enjoys hearing about it<br />
<br />
Look who came through the door today<br />
My patient friend Tammi!<br />
My heart jumps a little<br />
Not true, it jumps way more than a little<br />
My body follows, taking a little leap<br />
I run to greet her<br />
<br />
Welcome to the Black Barn<br />
Take a look around<br />
Have a seat<br />
Receive all that is here<br />
For you<br />
<br />
<br />
Diane Mann 2020<br />
<br />
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<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-52627473014271695132020-06-06T17:06:00.000-07:002020-06-06T17:17:36.515-07:00It's TimeAmazed, I am<br />
at the wretchedness<br />
of man—of me<br />
Stunned, I look on<br />
then look away<br />
<br />
Amazed, I am<br />
at grace overflowing<br />
to man—to me<br />
Stunned, I look on<br />
then look away<br />
<br />
Perhaps the time has come<br />
to, with courage, linger<br />
and look a little longer<br />
at what is.<br />
<br />
Diane Mann, 2020<br />
<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-8343491002164387762020-05-30T12:31:00.001-07:002020-05-30T12:58:39.517-07:00A Checkered Present<div style="text-align: right;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The photograph hangs on the entryway wall in my dear friend's home. Dozens of others surround it, but my gaze rests on this one each time I visit. Her grandparents sit on a cloth spread out on the grass in front of a parked 1930-something automobile, smiles on their faces, a breeze blowing their hair. They're not her grandparents or even anybody's parents yet; they were engaged to be married at the time. A picnic basket sits between them. The picture is black and white, but I've no doubt the fabric I see beneath them is red-and-white gingham, because what says "picnic" more than that?</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs56w4dPAeP2BeF9J-TZUI3yx-0l0aynhXrjig6TezRb_7-V6-AajC5IB2V1zCWzNO-tiSfDf__pGgk6O_tBQ_gR4gSLVxN3QHWALPRnI7_NOj1XKVZy6VJuCJlLkkhY8SlkZJBW0RUq2v/s1600/IMG_8982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs56w4dPAeP2BeF9J-TZUI3yx-0l0aynhXrjig6TezRb_7-V6-AajC5IB2V1zCWzNO-tiSfDf__pGgk6O_tBQ_gR4gSLVxN3QHWALPRnI7_NOj1XKVZy6VJuCJlLkkhY8SlkZJBW0RUq2v/s320/IMG_8982.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I say it each year as the last edge of spring ushers us into summer: "This year I'm going to bring back the picnic." Memories rise of my mom packing an ice chest and six children into the car, driving to a lake or a desert or anyplace with a picnic table awaiting us. We would make sandwiches, explore a bit, then drive home. The scenes weren't photo worthy—no woven picnic baskets or charming automobile, although a vinyl checkered table cloth did cover the picnic table—yet the light mood and simplicity of these days leave a joy-etched print on my memory.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My husband and I sat at a picnic table this week, plastic grocery bags and food containers decorating our space. We picked up takeout food then walked a path to a lovely park area a short drive from our home. "What a great idea," he kept saying, as we enjoyed the breeze, our meal, and each other.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A friend and I hiked on a trail in our nearby mountains yesterday, and not feeling safe about yet eating in restaurants due to Covid-19, we both packed a lunch. After our hike, we sat just off the road under a tree, a cement block providing our seating. She ate her salad while I drank my smoothie. My ukulele happened to be in my car, so I brought it over. I'd recently learned how to play "What A Wonderful World." She sang, reading the lyrics off my phone, while I played. We enjoyed our meal, a song, and each other.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Today finds me, at the end of May, looking forward to that quintessential picnic I say I'll bring back each summer. I look back, however, on the past week, these two meals shared with loved ones in the outdoors, and discover I've been living out what I'm longing for. While I still do want to put some effort into that more intentional, old-fashioned picnic (and have just the perfect gingham dress picked out to wear), I look again at my friend's photograph of her grandparents. The surroundings are charming—the basket, the vintage clothing and car, the checkered cloth—but what makes the photograph sing is the the love and light on this couple's faces as they enjoy the breeze, a meal, and each other.</span>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-74654207838538743572020-03-14T10:16:00.000-07:002020-03-14T10:16:56.881-07:00Among Us<div style="caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Fear is in the air<br />A virus spreading too<br />We step back from each other<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />More than we used to</span></div>
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We're full of care<br />Burdened by it, even<br />We try not to talk about it<br />But our efforts fail</div>
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News of outbreaks, numbers deceased<br />Make us edgy<br />Ill at ease<br />I don't know when the problem<br />Flipped from remote<br />"Out there somewhere" to<br />Right now<br />Right here<br />But it did</div>
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Where we once said<br />"Have a nice day"<br />To people we greeted<br />We now say<br />"Stay well"<br />No physical touching<br />But our gazes linger a bit longer<br />To let each other know<br />We mean it<br />And we do!<br />People say it to me<br />And I to them</div>
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I suppose we are touching each other<br />Now more than ever<br />The kindnesses are lights in the dark<br />Streams of goodness<br />Winding through<br />Harsh terrain</div>
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How can we help<br />The vulnerable among us?<br />People are planning<br />Looking for ways to watch out<br />For the other</div>
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Yes, fear is in the air<br />A virus too<br />It's almost palpable<br />But I notice the care among us<br />The most</div>
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Diane Mann 2020</div>
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Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-50971821203868433342020-03-02T10:40:00.000-08:002020-03-02T10:44:17.619-08:00Her Beads, My Words - Creativity Observed<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTxzyU1Lvvt2h4yEwLnGcITjCgGX92mZ76F3yHuXp9hqLEf6alcmDBP5u7ZmumZ7VRfLhOsX98vHA0NxpzhJ71INhH0BcvWjwczejXyDiFlpqSkxl5rjva6Bwn8IEsCSzHR7pdChnr5y6e/s1600/beads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="794" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTxzyU1Lvvt2h4yEwLnGcITjCgGX92mZ76F3yHuXp9hqLEf6alcmDBP5u7ZmumZ7VRfLhOsX98vHA0NxpzhJ71INhH0BcvWjwczejXyDiFlpqSkxl5rjva6Bwn8IEsCSzHR7pdChnr5y6e/s320/beads.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Necklace and photo by Magpie Madness Jewelry, Etsy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Commitment to her craft</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I see it in the jewelry maker</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Arranging her beads</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">One after the other</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The next</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> then the next</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Saying, it is good</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And finished</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> then creating again</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Is each piece her favorite?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Certainly not</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But by faith she </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Reaches for her tools</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Trusting the idea-giver</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Using the materials before her</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I'm blessed to see what she's made</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It spurs me to be</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Working on my own creations</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But when I stare too long</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">At her gifts</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I neglect to open</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">My own</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">God, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Make me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Not so frightened</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">To pick up my tools</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Arranging one word with the next</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> then the next</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Until we create something</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Together</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And say how lovely it is.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Diane Mann, 2020</span>Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-33366000040666313332020-02-08T11:22:00.000-08:002020-02-08T11:22:49.351-08:00I'm Learning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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He should have known.<br />
He should have known me.<br />
He should have known me better.<br />
<br />
My husband this Saturday morning hands me a cup of coffee he made, for me. He offered to make it, he made it with love, he delivered it to me in bed.<br />
<br />
I am so grateful.<br />
I am so upset.<br />
I am upset with me for the part of me that is upset.<br />
<br />
"Is this the largest mug you could find?" I ask?<br />
"I didn't really think about it," he said. "I saw you've been using this for your coffee."<br />
"Yes," I say, "But I use the Keurig during the week. "When you make my coffee, I like to drink it from the bigger mugs." (<i>You should know that</i>, I imply.)<br />
<br />
I couldn't not say it. I couldn't resist implying he should know better than to not use a giant mug when he makes me his custom coffee.<br />
<br />
I sit up in bed sipping, but not quite enjoying, my morning brew.<br />
<br />
I rewind to seven years ago, that October when my backpacking, solitude-loving, introverted husband took me to New York City for my fiftieth birthday. After an adventure-filled week, the morning of our departure we Googled Dunkin' Donuts and found one a mile from our hotel. The shop was a novelty for us, since at the time no DD's existed in Southern California, where we live. We had just enough time to squeeze in one last visit so took the mile walk. There I found a mug I wanted, and Brent bought it for me, an item celebrating both NYC and Dunkin' Donuts, a perfect souvenir.<br />
<br />
While packing after hurrying back to the hotel, I was realized I had left the newly purchased mug at the donut shop. We phoned to verify it was indeed there, and Brent ran as fast as he could a mile, retrieved my souvenir, and ran back, mug in hand, to the hotel, where we caught our ride to the airport just in time to catch the flight home.<br />
<br />
He was my hero, and I told him so.<br />
<br />
This mug that brings back happy memories is the same mug I'm upset about this morning. It's the one he chose to serve my coffee in.<br />
<br />
Even now, I see those words, <i>he chose to serve, </i>and I know I should be thankful!<br />
<br />
I've been practicing gratitude, I really have. I know it should win over ingratitude, I really do. How I can see my husband go from hero to zero over such a thing, I don't know. But I sense it has very little to do with him and a lot to do with me.<br />
<br />
I traveled a few steps (not a heroic mile, however) between the above paragraph and the one I am writing now. I found my husband in the garage and told him I had something I needed to ask forgiveness for. "Whatever could you have done wrong this early in the morning?" he asked. I stumbled through my apology. He somehow had failed to be offended by my remarks but accepted my apology, along with my thanks for his kindness.<br />
<br />
"Next time," he said, "it's OK to just ask for a bigger mug."<br />
<br />
I think I have some things to learn, about receiving, about receiving imperfectly the imperfect gifts given to me, about allowing even my gratitude to be imperfect.<br />
<br />
Lord, I'm grateful. Help my ungratefulness.<br />
<br />
<br />
Diane Mann 2020<br />
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<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-36120181799458774532020-01-23T08:35:00.001-08:002020-01-24T09:51:09.341-08:00For Zac <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I look at you with a blank stare<br />
The young man<br />
Who married my daughter<br />
And fathered my granddaughter<br />
<br />
You're asking about my dad<br />
Listening<br />
As we who knew him<br />
Recall<br />
What he was like<br />
(How long do you have?)<br />
<br />
I didn't know what to say, except<br />
I wish you could have known him<br />
<br />
I can tell you this:<br />
If you've seen a kind man<br />
Who is also strong<br />
A man who can laugh at himself<br />
Who is also proud<br />
A man whose faith grows<br />
With each impossible trial<br />
A man pointing out the pretty in nature<br />
Who recreates it in his art<br />
A man who welcomes others<br />
Yet needs time alone<br />
A man who asks, "Why me?"<br />
Wrought with pain<br />
Who also asks, "Why me?"<br />
Weighted with gratitude and wonder<br />
A man falling more in love with God<br />
To whom sharing Love is everything<br />
An anxious man<br />
Still learning<br />
To trust<br />
With an increasingly grateful heart<br />
For all God has given him<br />
<br />
Then you've seen someone like my dad,<br />
Whom, as you've witnessed by our words<br />
Loved Deeply and is<br />
Deeply Loved.<br />
<br />
Diane Mann, 2020<br />
<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-21865669568889869272019-12-13T09:57:00.000-08:002019-12-15T10:11:48.720-08:00The Exchange<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8Nap45kCnBNsMyakshLBSqEy3dLUfbLHvOesBIa-mnop_GKB7Q6BYmDKoRrf87LBlu_Y3fB4c07z5JbNN_umSYy04rFgYFisbCoEBrPFgJ66W-RhIu2aTBHCNXfpyUkHP4VGQwy5_MkE/s1600/IMG_7333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="506" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU8Nap45kCnBNsMyakshLBSqEy3dLUfbLHvOesBIa-mnop_GKB7Q6BYmDKoRrf87LBlu_Y3fB4c07z5JbNN_umSYy04rFgYFisbCoEBrPFgJ66W-RhIu2aTBHCNXfpyUkHP4VGQwy5_MkE/s320/IMG_7333.jpg" width="253" /></a>He was tall and built, handsome, beanie-capped, cheerful, and bundled up, the Christmas tree lot employee. He stood taller than most of the trees displayed on a corner south of town and could lift a hefty tree as though it were as light as an umbrella. He moved about the lot with ease this crisp December evening, helping wherever he saw a need.<br />
<br />
I saw him approach several different people before he made his way over to me, where I stood waiting while my husband paid for our tree. As he moved closer, I noticed he was holding something up. It was pink and a little sparkly, rectangular, and he handled it as though it were something important.<br />
<br />
"Is this yours?" he asked, his hands cupping what appeared to be my cell phone. Yes, it was, but I intentionally left my phone in the truck, I thought I remembered. How can that be? He pointed me to where he found it, hundreds of feet from where we stood.<br />
<br />
He restored to me something I didn't even know was missing.<br />
<br />
Gushing thanks and praises to my Christmas tree farm hero, I said, "This is just like a Hallmark Christmas movie! There is always a tree lot and often an angel, and you're my angel who returned this to me!"<br />
<br />
His smile shone brighter than the white lights dangling above us. "Thank you, ma'am. That warms my heart," he said, as he rubbed his gloved hand over his chest.<br />
<br />
We talked a bit more, and again I referred to him as an angel, while I gave more detail about what happens in Christmas movies. When we said goodbye, he said, "Thank you so much again, ma'am. I can't tell you how much my heart is warmed by what you said."<br />
<br />
Did my words restore to him something he didn't even know was missing?<br />
<br />
I'd really like to think so.<br />
<br />
Diane Mann 2019<br />
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<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-45611645657848891722019-10-12T12:40:00.001-07:002019-10-12T14:30:15.091-07:00Perfectly Wrong<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgkaK-bzrB_HCTfauIrIBy328NmlIUy8JdY1cI_ueCaemcEg2mSUzrYqM2y8sRZwJLnTMWn7v3Z9wsLuB_uGtMAdc2-_uMHhJOizgDmfiju1C3PQoPPGImESUJfpFM1Js6MKIrNAlNK1Gn/s1600/pumpkin+day+number+2+10-10-19.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="640" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgkaK-bzrB_HCTfauIrIBy328NmlIUy8JdY1cI_ueCaemcEg2mSUzrYqM2y8sRZwJLnTMWn7v3Z9wsLuB_uGtMAdc2-_uMHhJOizgDmfiju1C3PQoPPGImESUJfpFM1Js6MKIrNAlNK1Gn/s200/pumpkin+day+number+2+10-10-19.png" width="200" /></a></div>
Sometimes I like fake.<br />
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Sometimes I prefer the aisles of Hobby Lobby's darling Fall decor over stepping outdoors, into Fall. I adore farmhouse-themed paintings and rustic welcome signs, but I don't like the messiness that comes with real farms. I find myself enjoying the <i>idea </i>of something rather than stepping into the reality of that something itself.<br />
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This week my daughters and I, with their children, got together on the four-year anniversary of my mom's death. We explored going to tea like we had done in the past to remember my mom, their grandma, who loved to give tea parties. Yet somehow we landed on the idea to visit a nearby farm to let the kids see animals and pick out pumpkins to bring home.<br />
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It was midday, and the sun glared, giving us no chance for cute kids-with-pumpkin photos. The pumpkins themselves were unappealing. Toy tractors set out for children to ride wouldn't roll on the wood chips they were placed on. And my grandchildren were noticeably uninterested in the farm animals (except the one pooping sheep that got their attention for a bit).<br />
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I went to the produce room to purchase something to support the farm. I found the produce to be, well, ugly. Grapes sat in a basket, and they were much smaller than grocery store grapes, with no fun packaging announcing, "I am a grape. Buy me!" The signs in front of each bunch of vegetables were not drawn in modern calligraphy but just written with <i>ordinary </i>handwriting. Apples were small and dull, peppers unimpressive in their presentation. I read a sign advertising olive oil. Olive oil I could buy. It would be in a bottle with a pretty label. But the olive oil supply was out.<br />
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Finally I saw a freezer containing grass-fed beef, so I purchased a pound of ground beef (with a SKU code on the packaging, which somehow makes it seem a step from it being too <i>real</i>).<br />
<br />
I don't know why I was so repulsed by everything I saw at the farm. I give this farm thumbs-up on Facebook and follow it on Instagram, "loving" each picture posted. I've even enjoyed being there in the past. Perhaps I feel safer viewing it from behind the screen—cleaner, no dirt getting into my sandals, no harsh sun beating down on me, no animal smells or bodily functions.<br />
<br />
This morning I'm remembering a family road trip from my childhood. I saw beautiful views, sitting in admiration while looking through the windows of our fully packed Volkswagen bus. Am I really seeing this lovely scenery, I wondered to myself, or does it not count because I am seeing it through this glass window? But when we got out of our van and stepped into the real, beautiful and ugly, dusty, windy, cold or hot place, I experienced what was real about all I saw. While I may have both liked and disliked some things about the place I got to enter into and explore, I always appreciated the <i>real.</i><br />
<br />
Our group traveled from the farm to an outdoor mall, where we enjoyed coffee. Karis had baked some of Grandma's cookies she shared with us. I then took the children on a ride in a <i>fake </i>train. My granddaughter stood up quickly, excited to see a water fountain out the window and bumped her head. She cried for her mama, who we could see through the window the entire train ride. My grandson had opted for a seat in the back car, away from us, joined by a fake skeleton. Just before the ride began, he came up to our car, and told me, "I was only a little, tiny bit scared of the skeleton," so he rode in the train car with me, a bit shaken.<br />
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Still pumpkinless, we said our parking lot goodbyes. My daughters and I noted that my not-animal-loving mom would have appreciated that we didn't have fun at the farm; not enjoying animals seemed a fitting way to honor her memory! We hugged, and I told them I would send money through a phone app so they could buy their own pumpkins at the grocery store. How "not real" can you get?<br />
<br />
I later texted Karis and Megan, "Thank you for today. It was wrong in so many ways, which somehow made it perfect."<br />
<br />
Perhaps memories of the day my mom died held enough reality that I necessarily had to reject the nitty-gritty, real stuff of this world for a day.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I like fake. And sometimes that's OK.<br />
<br />
<i>Diane Mann, 2019</i><br />
<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-20789345851860575792019-04-14T10:16:00.001-07:002019-04-14T12:16:28.179-07:00Inconvenient Truth<div style="font-family: "American Typewriter"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
When I try to write, I feel like I am making myself do something, trying to manipulate me somehow. No matter how healthily I attempt to look at it, that several-foot distance between me and my keyboard is packed with dread.</div>
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I hate dread.</div>
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If I could bypass it, I would. Maybe I can. Maybe the answer is out there, the little previously unnoticed route around the dark valley.</div>
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It ought not be this way. I’ve been given a gift, to be received, delighted in, and shared. Instead I hang onto it like it’s a gift card, dreaming while I roam around Target trying to decide how to spend it. So. Many. Possibilities.</div>
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And what if I make the “wrong” choice? What if I spend it on toilet paper when I should have spent it on eyeliner? Hairspray? A new shirt? Batteries for my husband (he would be so happy)? I’m certain the giver of the gift intended that I find joy in it rather than angst. </div>
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Meanwhile I gaze at others finding joy and freedom in expressing themselves, in first receiving then sharing what’s been given them. The cousin who can’t stop composing new music, her hands dancing across piano keys. The son who prolifically writes satire, word after clever word. The painters, the poets, the songwriters, the decorators, the choreographers, the gardeners—all producing something.</div>
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“Diane doesn’t DO anything.” I can’t even tell you whether this was ever spoken, but it’s a message from my childhood lingering way beneath the surface of me. To find its source seems like more digging than I’m up for. But then when one pulls a big weed from the ground, is it necessary to find out how it got there? Maybe not. Maybe let’s just get the weed out and plant something lovely in its place.</div>
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Diane dreamed. Diane thought. Diane danced and climbed trees. Diane observed. Diane giggled. Diane made up songs. Diane absorbed things in her heart. Diane sought and often found meaning in everything. Diane admired beauty. She pondered and played, her pondering being more her reality than her play. She swam. She enjoyed people. She loved. </div>
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I suppose she couldn’t be put into a box. “This is our child who plays piano.”</div>
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“This is our child who enjoys animals.” “This is our child who reads incessantly.” </div>
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No, there wasn’t one box to put me in. I was inconvenient in that way, perhaps.</div>
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How inconvenient that Diane is in drill team. That means we have to get her to the school early on Saturdays so she can march in parades. That means we have to buy her nylons at 7-eleven on the way (why were my parents always surprised I needed new nylons for every parade?). Frantic realization, followed by heavy sighs, followed by a rushed three-mile drive. </div>
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My needs seemed a bit too much. I seemed a bit too much. And I wonder whether I now treat myself and my desires as an inconvenience. </div>
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How inconvenient that I have ideas to write about some things, about many somethings, in fact. That means I have to step up and meet that need to express myself. That means I have to travel the dreaded “three miles” from where I sit to my computer. Frantic, followed by heavy sighs, followed by possibly dragging myself to where I need to be. A victim of my own gifts and desires? </div>
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I don’t know. I know that my writer friend Ruth was seen and embraced by her parents. I wonder what I would be like now if I had been treated the same. Her dad, when she was eight years old, told her, “Write down the things God whispers to you.” He saw her and encouraged her to step into who she was.</div>
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I suppose I am angry I didn’t have encouragement to be who I am. I suppose I think it’s all rather unfair that my guiding factor was to see how little trouble I could be, to attempt to need as little as possible, to not overwhelm the already chaotic family (albeit fun) system in which I lived.</div>
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I needed to write this today.</div>
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It’s okay to need. And dream. And ponder. And be angry. And heal.</div>
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Diane Mann 2019</div>
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Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-47709256373595749752019-02-09T10:29:00.000-08:002019-02-27T10:28:33.934-08:00I Think of RayIt's been over half a decade now since I met him. I know only a handful of facts about him. And few pictures of that time we crossed paths remain in my mind.<br />
<br />
My husband and I approached a camp area on a backpacking loop in the Sierras after our first day of hiking. We would spend four nights and five days making our way through the wilderness. "Welcome!" bellowed a happy, hairy, bare-bellied man who had just emerged from the river. As he dried himself off, he expressed how lucky we all were to be camping in such a beautiful area and pointed out places we could set up our tent. It was as though we were checking into a five-star resort and he was the check-in attendant. We shortly found out his name was Ray—Ray, the camp greeter, we dubbed him. Ray was jolly, grateful, and Ray adored this trail (coincidentally named Rae Lakes Loop).<br />
<br />
I am an unlikely backpacker, the one people see, do a quick adjustment in their minds from what a typical backpacker looks like, then most often throw out a word of encouragement, "You can do it! You're almost there! Keep going!" Not super strong, not young, not REI-ad worthy. Ray looked even less like he belonged on the trail than I did. Health and fitness did not appear a priority for him, but hiking this trail was. He and his buddies, Lou and Brian, trekked the 42-mile-loop once a year.<br />
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Sometimes we would pass the threesome while they rested on the side of the trail, and sometimes they would pass us. Ray and Lou lost Brian one evening, and Brian carried their cooking equipment, so my husband heated up their food for them and they camped with us.<br />
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While Ray's Top Ramen was boiling, he told us about his grandfather, who used to lead a pack of mules over this same pass in the early 1900s. This trail held much meaning for Ray.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXFvOBGuyYimg2y05PWIqbrtyysTglVzOWYAJNXPFTM9cQjdG7qIy1vdaLveKohBTBUpr7Vdl3LeC6x5PlllH_b9Agzn890bedE6lNvYHNHx_USmFLPQEDZcQlaNjY16mgm-sKNZkQFoYr/s1600/1265507_10151570064656020_2108022868_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1524" data-original-width="1422" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXFvOBGuyYimg2y05PWIqbrtyysTglVzOWYAJNXPFTM9cQjdG7qIy1vdaLveKohBTBUpr7Vdl3LeC6x5PlllH_b9Agzn890bedE6lNvYHNHx_USmFLPQEDZcQlaNjY16mgm-sKNZkQFoYr/s320/1265507_10151570064656020_2108022868_o.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glen Pass, 11,926 feet above sea level, 6,000 feet above where we started!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
While we didn't hike with Ray and his buddies, per se, our trip did parallel theirs some, as we often ended up camping in the same area in the evenings. Each night Ray was the last to arrive to the campsite, while others wondered whether he would make it before nightfall. He always did.<br />
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On Day 3, we climbed Glen Pass, 11,926 feet above sea level, the most difficult part of the trail—steep, rocky, exhausting. Whatever strength one had, this ascent demanded it all and then some. Brent, Lou, and Brian were way ahead, followed by me then Ray. I didn't want to leave Ray behind so purposefully slowed my pace, once even hiking back down a ways to sit with him as he rested.<br />
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Perching ourselves on rocks alongside the trail, we sat to catch our breath. Ray reached into his left shirt pocket and pulled out a brightly colored package. "Have you ever tried these energy chews?" he asked. "They're really good," and handed me one. I savored the bright-orange chewy goodness he gave me. I don't know whether the treat had a placebo effect or the vitamins B-12 and C it contained really had their promised results, but I did receive energy to keep going after the rest and the tasty burst of deliciousness Ray shared with me.<br />
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Several breaks and refreshments later, we, with elation, reached the top of the pass, where we high-fived each other, drooled over the majestic views, and snapped photos of ourselves, each one rejoicing in the victorious moment.<br />
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It's been years since I've met Ray and his friends. Our promises to keep in touch through email fell flat. But when I'm exhausted while doing something difficult that seems beyond my own strength, I think of Ray, the value of rest and camaraderie, and that orange energy chew.<br />
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But mostly I think of Ray.<br />
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<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-70208098667061358212018-12-23T08:07:00.001-08:002018-12-23T08:09:24.276-08:00Intended TargetI've been texting a scammer.<br />
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It's not like I believe him or anything. But he has been scamming someone close to me. And ticking me off in the process.<br />
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He is in love. He cares for her heart. He will never do anything to tear her heart. "I prove to you I am real babe," he writes to me, in sentence patterns screaming this truth: He is not from San Diego, California.<br />
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He is not in the armed forces and on deployment in Afghanistan.<br />
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He is not using those iTunes cards sent to him for watching video games because the Army won't allow him access to his money.<br />
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The five phones he ordered on his victim's Verizon account are not for an orphanage of 25 children who can't afford phones.<br />
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He is not quitting the Army (or is it Navy? It changes.) to come home to marry anyone at a destination wedding in Hawaii.<br />
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There is no promised three-carat diamond ring cut in a heart shape.<br />
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And the pictures. The obviously cut-and-pasted photographs of his fresh, smiling face, that touch of gray, the exact same in every scene but pasted onto a real soldier's body.<br />
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It would be funny if it weren't so awful.<br />
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He is a fisherman in a sense, trolling his line out in the sea of women to find vulnerable ones, who are grieving and broken—and just. can't. see.<br />
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He is livid that I don't believe he is who he says he is. After going back and forth with him a few times, I have that funny feeling I had when I would engage my two-year-olds in an argument. "Don't get on their same level," the experts warned. "You're sure to lose."<br />
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So I remove myself from his level, this person committing crimes right in front of my face, crimes that are hurting someone I love. (I liken what I am experiencing to watching a thug take my grandmother's purse from her hands while I stand a foot away.) I back up a bit and try to disengage. You're not going to win this, I say to myself. So I text scammer-man this truth (after telling him his grammar sucks; the court reporter in me had to defend the English language!), "God sees real you and loves you."<br />
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I'm not expecting repentance from him.<br />
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But it felt good to speak truth into the situation, truth that is bigger than our lies, light that is brighter than the darkest, most remote places of our hearts.<br />
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I don't know whether he heard me. He didn't respond after that. But I heard me.<br />
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God sees real me.<br />
God's light reaches into my darkest places, those places where I, too, just. can't. see.<br />
God sees who I pretend to be, who I wish I were versus who I really am.<br />
<br />
I don't know whether the words I texted reached Nigeria (or the Navy ship where "Romeo" is serving our country).<br />
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But the words reached me. God sees real me.<br />
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And loves me.Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-30772132382234738992018-09-01T09:14:00.001-07:002018-09-01T13:14:45.228-07:00Fragrant Threads<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-ETf8T2Q1Yc84h5fUgw-22936otO_kq7XsyOem7jVbhYl6sKEhn2NbtXaYdOT0p5Oy7Zqbbtk0vJlgMeFPkV4jX6977tGts_OZms0UE9PyI7SzY2pz7lRBmsbq8rBHcM-WUy5fVlDADI/s1600/orange+groves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="1280" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-ETf8T2Q1Yc84h5fUgw-22936otO_kq7XsyOem7jVbhYl6sKEhn2NbtXaYdOT0p5Oy7Zqbbtk0vJlgMeFPkV4jX6977tGts_OZms0UE9PyI7SzY2pz7lRBmsbq8rBHcM-WUy5fVlDADI/s320/orange+groves.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
"That's my favorite scent," my great Aunt Helen said every time she drove me past the orange groves on Monte Vista Avenue. I was nine and ten and eleven and twelve and so on. After some deep, slow inhaling, she would go on, "I just love the smell of orange blossoms!" Wow, she really does like that smell, I said to myself, since she tells me about it every single time we pass this way. I wondered whether she thought I forgot what her favorite smell was, if she were to question me about it, I might fail the test. I wondered whether she forgot she had passed that news on to me dozens of times before.<br />
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She was savoring and relishing something that gave her delight. Looking back forty years later, I believe she most likely spoke the same words aloud when she was driving alone. I just happened to overhear her gratitude for something that triggered joy in her. I just happened to be sitting on the sidelines of her worship.<br />
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I have other piecemeal memories of her. The way she sang, "Yoohoo," when me and my five siblings would enter her home. She sang the same tune when she and Aunt Bu would come over to my family's house. I knew that I knew that I was her favorite of the Carver Kids, and everyone else knew it too. She held the purse strings in her family (she and her two sisters lived together, none ever marrying), and she sometimes spent some of what was in that purse on me. I remember a red bathing suit that was purchased for me while all the Carver Kids were there. It really wasn't fair, but she did it anyway. She was at the hospital when I was born, the story is told, while my dad was at work. Maybe that is why Aunt Helen felt a special bond with me.<br />
<br />
She was frugal and opinionated, principled, a horrible cook, sharp, and conservative. A retired physical education teacher, she was slim and agile and measured under five feet tall. Aunt Bu, one of her older sisters, used to bellow, "Merry Christmas!" as we arrived to their home, no matter what month it was. We soon learned she wasn't joking. As dementia worsened, she babbled things that made no sense but babbled them with pleasant feeling and expression. When we drove to day outings, picnics and the like, Aunt Bu read the words on every billboard we drove by out loud. Aunt Helen, long before "Prevention" magazine was a thing, subscribed and tried vitamins and healthful foods that might help her sister. She was always on the lookout for a remedy, hoping the next thing, or the next thing, would bring healing.<br />
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When I was engaged to be married, she gave me a silk pouch filled with embroidered fabric handkerchiefs. A beautiful design was woven into each piece of fabric. One by one she unfolded them, telling me which special occasion they were attached to. She got to the last one, held it in her hands, and said, "This is the handkerchief I carried the night I met the only man I ever loved." Her eyes filled with tears, her voice quivered, her lips tightened, and she said no more. After she died, I learned the man's name was Phillip. They had fallen in love over a summer. When summer was over and they returned to college, she learned he had been engaged to be married to another. He wanted to break his engagement to marry Aunt Helen, but she felt that would be wrong. She never loved another.<br />
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She always promised me, but never delivered, a train ride wherein we would sit facing backwards. "Someday we will ride on a train, you and I. And we will sit in a rear-facing seat. You see more when you're facing backwards," she told me. "It's the most amazing thing."<br />
<br />
My sister Susan, two and a half years older than I, warned me, "Watch out. Aunt Helen is going to give you 'the talk,' just like she did me and Paula. She's going to tell you all about how she started her period on a church picnic." I swore this would not happen to me, that I would avoid this awkward scenario at all costs. But one day when I was twelve, she was helping me clean out my room and opened a small drawer that housed my underwear. A red felt pen for some unknown reason was in the underwear drawer. For another unknown reason its cap had been removed, and the red ink had soaked into the crotch of a pair of underwear.<br />
<br />
You really can't make this stuff up.<br />
<br />
She saw this as her chance to tell me about when she "became a young lady" and how I also would. Having been warned by my big sisters, I saw it coming and bolted to the bathroom, hiding out until she left my bedroom. She never did get to tell me the story.<br />
<br />
Once my family borrowed Aunt Helen's car. She needed it the next morning and didn't want to be a bother to anyone so walked over to our home and drove her car to the store. Meanwhile we woke up and called the police to report a stolen vehicle. Aunt Helen exited Alpha Beta and went to her car, where police officers waited, ready to arrest her for stealing a vehicle. She was eighty. Then there was the time in the same parking lot she made a quick trip into the store, leaving Aunt Bu in the car for a bit. Aunt Helen returned to an empty car and went on a search for her sister. She finally called the police, who found Aunt Bu in the dressing room of a clothing store having a nice conversation with herself while looking in a full-length mirror.<br />
<br />
So many stories, the kinds our family tells again and again—those stories that begin with, "Remember when," that change a bit every time and end in a chorus of laughter.<br />
<br />
Once in a while I get a longing, a longing that aches for the people I knew and loved in my early years to be able to know the people I know now. I want my kids to know Aunt Helen, my grandma, their two sisters, Carrie and Bertha (Bu). I try to tell them what they were like. God gave me a dream once, shortly after my grandma died and my third child, Karis was born. He let me walk my grandma over to her cradle, where I said, "Grandma, this is my baby girl, Karis." They met and loved each other.<br />
<br />
I woke up with a wet face.<br />
<br />
My face is wet today as I sit in quiet prayer. My tears are potent with longing to share the people I loved, who are woven into the fabric of my heart, with the people I now love, who are also woven into the fabric my heart. They all make me who I am.<br />
<br />
I sit on the loveseat in these early morning candlelit moments, relishing these tears of longing, allowing them to remain on my face awhile. The train moves forward. I hop onto a seat facing backwards, inhale deeply, and enjoy the fragrance of orange blossoms.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-18057669979503836352018-06-09T08:53:00.000-07:002018-06-09T08:53:50.820-07:00Unparalyzed<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That funny thing called fear</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
keeps us from taking one step</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
toward what we want</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
because we freeze up at the thought</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of not having things turn out the way</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
we picture</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Paralyzing fear guarantees we will
never</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
get where we desire to go</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(perhaps fear is not so funny a thing
after all)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But taking one step,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
breathing one breath,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
performing one act</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
toward the intended destination,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the hoped-for dream</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Makes fear dissipate</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fear fears courage</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and shrivels at the sight of it</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
fear loathes love</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and scurries away</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in its presence</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
perhaps fear is itself</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a coward?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fear freezes me, but only temporarily</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
when I move,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
fear stops dead</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in its tracks</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and I am free to live,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to be – and dream,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Diane Carver Mann 2018</div>
<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-42138199026042277582018-06-03T11:16:00.000-07:002018-06-03T11:17:52.127-07:00But Goldfinches<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYaraA6H152p-uEtu_GHycfk_iryTj0IwlVOTJzG422WgEpkUbB7DK85G-VYZnxvK_cNhCZVHAmv7j8Ih6rO1vioWN0J6gjgWPGxE1wZlFZ_y9P8HV7UBWKq7zt1JR6tsLSCPzytikF-MX/s1600/gray+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="959" data-original-width="955" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYaraA6H152p-uEtu_GHycfk_iryTj0IwlVOTJzG422WgEpkUbB7DK85G-VYZnxvK_cNhCZVHAmv7j8Ih6rO1vioWN0J6gjgWPGxE1wZlFZ_y9P8HV7UBWKq7zt1JR6tsLSCPzytikF-MX/s320/gray+day.jpg" width="316" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A cousin—was it the one in
Pittsburgh or the one in Germany? I've never met either but enjoy
hearing from them through social media—woke up to a gray day. Her eyes must have lit up when she noticed two
yellow birds—goldfinches—perched in her garden. She snapped a
picture of them with her phone and posted it to Instagram. “A
gloomy day but goldfinches,” she wrote. No exclamation point or
emojis, no explanation of what this meant to her.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've carried this image in my mind for
a couple of weeks now, and equally the words “but goldfinches.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wednesday morning I was assigned to a
job in Pasadena. The commute was shorter somehow than expected, and I
arrived early. I parked my car in front of the office building then
did some shopping on my phone. I ordered a yellow beaded necklace and
earrings from Amazon to go with some shoes I have.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I got out of my car, went to the side
passenger door to retrieve my computer and steno machine. The place
where I always put my equipment was empty. I looked again then
checked the very back and the front of the car to see whether I might have
put the equipment in a different place. But no. I arrived to my job
without any way to report the legal proceedings. I've done this
before, but only in my worst dreams.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This was real, though, and not a dream.
Hands shaking, I called the agency I work for and spoke with Jenn. We
brainstormed and came up with a plan for her to grab a court
reporting machine she used in school that was stored at her home and
drive it to me. Her ETA would be 10:45 a.m., forty-five minutes past
when the deposition was scheduled to begin.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I didn't want to go into the attorney's
office. I didn't want to face the people whom I'd inconvenienced by
my forgetfulness. The girls at the court reporting office tried to
calm me via nice texts, assuring me all would be well, and encouraged
me to go in. Something in me alerted me to this: I can be sorry and
say so but not grovel. I don't know what in me shifted with that
thought. But that thought, the idea to apologize, leave it there, and
do my best and go forward with my day, helped usher me into the
office building (along with the fact that I needed to use their
restroom; that helped too).
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I met the receptionist and asked to borrow a legal pad. Upon entering the conference room,
I met opposing counsel and his clients, a couple from Iran who had
moved to America in 1962, the year I was born. They were kind to me and told me about things they had forgotten, times things have gone wrong for them.
The attorney who hired me came in and met me, and I let him know we
were waiting for delivery of a steno machine. I read a book that was
in my car and visited some more with the deponent and his wife. Such
gracious people they were.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jenn arrived with her steno machine, and we had to fiddle with the cord to get the equipment to
charge. On a break I visited with the deponent's wife, letting her
know I had recently visited Israel. She had also been there. I told
her I missed eating falafel and various things I enjoyed about the
Middle East, and she shared what she loves about living in America.
And when the job finished, I chatted with her and her husband in the
parking lot, about their health, jobs, life, children, grandchildren.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If I had taken my normal behavioral
route of groveling when I inconvenience someone else, my eyes would
have been so entirely fixed on my own inadequacy that I would have
missed the kind and interesting interactions with the people around
me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But I didn't miss it. I didn't necessarily walk
into the office with my head held high, but it wasn't
slung low either. It was just medium, where I could see the people
neither above, nor below, but across from me, people who assuredly
also had been the recipients of grace, who were able to extend some
to me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I was almost home from my
hour-long drive, I glanced down at the seat next to me. On it rested
the brand-new yellow legal pad I “borrowed” from the
receptionist. I had neglected to return it. The yellow paper stood
out against the gray seat on which it sat. The gray, glum seat cover,
the cheery yellow paper.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A perfect picture of my gloomy day— </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
but goldfinches.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-40658336517914302172018-05-05T13:09:00.002-07:002018-05-05T13:12:35.394-07:00Somehow <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMHUtDai-sVzS5j52hJjwvvOYGmE5q0Nh4YTW4-61qZFEYLgFrkhwn-R9WliOPlXZAOZ-NGZycQHMjQ8hBsZbbQl0TS-dbUbHO0bmxiCUY9obsqLet6aQpowV9KGKFGW4Noph9h3PcApg/s1600/IMG_0098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="545" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGMHUtDai-sVzS5j52hJjwvvOYGmE5q0Nh4YTW4-61qZFEYLgFrkhwn-R9WliOPlXZAOZ-NGZycQHMjQ8hBsZbbQl0TS-dbUbHO0bmxiCUY9obsqLet6aQpowV9KGKFGW4Noph9h3PcApg/s320/IMG_0098.jpg" width="272" /></a></div>
My backyard has a path we designed. It is curvy, its edges are made of concrete, and within the path is decomposed granite. Those who walk in are led to a circle containing a firepit encircled by various uncoordinated chairs—the chair from the backyard of my childhood home that has been repainted several times, a wicker rocking chair, a child's white Adirondack chair I picked up at Goodwill for $4.99, a painted redwood bench. As I pictured the area ahead of time, I envisioned all of the chairs matching each other, cheerful red Adirondacks inviting people to ease into them, but I have come to appreciate the way the circle looks with chairs that shouldn't go together, but somehow do.<br />
<br />
"You always say that, Mom," my daughter chuckles as again I explain my fascination with shoes. "Look how each designer had the same amount of space to work within," say, the length and width of a Size 7 shoe, "yet they each created something different with a similar amount of space and materials." I have the same thoughts at bakeries, ice cream shops, and while walking down the street in New York City noticing and enjoying all the different scarves women have chosen to drape over their outfits. Sometimes I wonder why a certain combination works when it shouldn't, wondering why a woman chose that scarf to go with that outfit. But she walks confidently as though the scarf was made to be worn with her clothing.<br />
<br />
Within my sibling group, we have a phrase we use: "It's way important," we will often say, repeating something my nephew Christopher would say when he really, really wanted to play with a toy one of his cousins had. With much intensity and with every cell in his body involved in the expression of his feelings, he spit out to his mom after she explained he would have to wait his turn to drive the Little Tikes car, "But Mom, it's WAY important!"<br />
<br />
Something became "way important" to me this week as well. Preparations had been made for my son's Kyle's book-launch party—who was bringing what, the time we would gather, food we would eat, games we would play. Balloons were filled with helium, inhabiting most of the space in my car. But something was missing. I had to bring a decorated cookie.<br />
<br />
I called the cookie place where Brent purchased a cookie 34 years ago with writing on it that said, "Can I marry your daughter?" he presented to my dad. The same establishment had decorated a cookie for us bearing the image of a purple blow dryer as we celebrated my daughter-in-law Destiny's receiving her beautician's license. That fifteen-inch-in-diameter of goodness bore varied messages of celebration over the years. I learned, however, the company had gone out of business. I looked at Wal-Mart and Sams Club, but both places had pre-decorated cookies I would have to un-decorate in order to create the bumblebee-themed cookie I envisioned.<br />
<br />
So I purchased a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough and some tubes of yellow and black frosting. I baked the cookie then pulled it out of the oven, and we drove to Kyle and Destiny's house while the cookie cooled. Destiny was wearing a shirt with the symbol of Kyle's website on it, a bee, so she sat as a model while I traced out the image with frosting onto the cookie, and she cheered me on while I worked.<br />
<br />
The word that keeps visiting me as I write this is, "within." I tend to imagine that life would be richer if there weren't limits but am learning to value to what can happen within those limits. What is God inviting me to within this seemingly too short half hour I get to share conversation and coffee with my daughter? or the only one night away with my husband? What would God have me do with the paycheck that is smaller than I expected or with my energy and time that never seem quite enough? What will the designer draw in this limited space?<br />
<br />
The Psalmist in scripture says this: "The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places." If I live stepping into the path of this truth, I can also live believing what is meant to be will happen within those places, things that, like my odd set of chairs, maybe shouldn't even go together.<br />
<br />
But somehow they do.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8569603058668406477.post-25619620386025147572018-05-05T12:55:00.001-07:002018-05-05T13:08:34.702-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib38O7sGfz5spIZJ3LuZhi7QdPbQwJzMUEhugxbSYqfkwIp064e86g29ErK9pvZjMsl3MGMeXag5ccldk1mUI0yDelzlbxwyn1AH1yOgKDob9FD25PL9u9EGAKBZ27mu7gJU3XBjDjoUuO/s1600/IMG_0098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="545" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib38O7sGfz5spIZJ3LuZhi7QdPbQwJzMUEhugxbSYqfkwIp064e86g29ErK9pvZjMsl3MGMeXag5ccldk1mUI0yDelzlbxwyn1AH1yOgKDob9FD25PL9u9EGAKBZ27mu7gJU3XBjDjoUuO/s320/IMG_0098.jpg" width="272" /></a>My backyard has a path we designed. It is curvy, its edges are made of concrete, and within the path is decomposed granite. Those who walk in are led to a circle containing a firepit encircled by various uncoordinated chairs—the chair from the backyard of my childhood home that has been repainted several times, a wicker rocking chair, a child's white Adirondack chair I picked up at Goodwill for $4.99, a painted redwood bench. As I pictured the area ahead of time, I envisioned all of the chairs matching each other, cheerful red Adirondacks inviting people to ease into them, but I have come to appreciate the way the circle looks with chairs that shouldn't go together, but somehow do.<br />
<br />
"You always say that, Mom," my daughter chuckles as again I explain my fascination with shoes. "Look how each designer had the same amount of space to work within," say, the length and width of a Size 7 shoe, "yet they each created something different with a similar amount of space and materials." I have the same thoughts at bakeries, ice cream shops, and while walking down the street in New York City noticing and enjoying all the different scarves women have chosen to drape over their outfits. Sometimes I wonder why a certain combination works when it shouldn't, wondering why a woman chose that scarf to go with that outfit. But she walks confidently as though the scarf was made to be worn with her clothing.<br />
<br />
Within my sibling group, we have a phrase we use: "It's way important," we will often say, repeating something my nephew Christopher would say when he really, really wanted to play with a toy one of his cousins had. With much intensity and with every cell in his body involved in the expression of his feelings, he spit out to his mom after she explained he would have to wait his turn to drive the Little Tikes car, "But Mom, it's WAY important!"<br />
<br />
Something became "way important" to me this week as well. Preparations had been made for my son's Kyle's book-launch party—who was bringing what, the time we would gather, food we would eat, games we would play. Balloons were filled with helium, inhabiting most of the space in my car. But something was missing. I had to bring a decorated cookie.<br />
<br />
I called the cookie place where Brent purchased a cookie 34 years ago with writing on it that said, "Can I marry your daughter?" he presented to my dad. The same establishment had decorated a cookie for us bearing the image of a purple blow dryer as we celebrated my daughter-in-law Destiny's receiving her beautician's license. That fifteen-inch-in-diameter of goodness bore varied messages of celebration over the years. I learned, however, the company had gone out of business. I looked at Wal-Mart and Sams Club, but both places had pre-decorated cookies I would have to un-decorate in order to create the bumblebee-themed cookie I envisioned.<br />
<br />
So I purchased a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough and some tubes of yellow and black frosting. I baked the cookie then pulled it out of the oven, and we drove to Kyle and Destiny's house while the cookie cooled. Destiny was wearing a shirt with the symbol of Kyle's website on it, a bee, so she sat as a model while I traced out the image with frosting onto the cookie, and she cheered me on while I worked.<br />
<br />
The word that keeps visiting me as I write this is, "within." I tend to imagine that life would be richer if there weren't limits but am learning to value to what can happen within those limits. What is God inviting me to within this seemingly too short half hour I get to share conversation and coffee with my daughter? or the only one night away with my husband? What would God have me do with the paycheck that is smaller than I expected or with my energy and time that never seem quite enough? What will the designer draw in this limited space?<br />
<br />
The Psalmist in scripture says this: "The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places." If I live stepping into the path of this truth, I can also live believing what is meant to be will happen within those places, things that, like my odd set of chairs, maybe shouldn't even go together.<br />
<br />
But somehow they do.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />Dianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616617235366090216noreply@blogger.com0