Category Archives: Soul Care

End of the Road

09 Thursday Apr 2009

Posted by in Far Away Places, Mesta Park, Prayer, Soul Care

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Yesterday I slipped away from everyday life to retreat at St. Francis of the Woods, just a few neighborhood streets and a forty mile stretch of ever narrowing roads. The six lane divided highway soon slimmed to four, which later reduced to two lanes to succumb to a narrow gravel road as I arrived at my destination.  By the time I had parked my car, I had run out of road.   

 

St. Francis of the Woods was formed by a Greek Orthodox priest and his wife, who like me, was raised Baptist and joined a Methodist Church in her college years.  My grandfather was raised Greek Orthodox, though he attended church sparingly, usually once a year on Easter, whether or not he needed it.  As I got out of my car, I felt an immediate kinship with this place, in large part due to our common mix of religious heritages, but then later, from learning that my host had grown up in Mesta Park before it was called that, just down the street from the house I now call home.        

 

Just as my host Tim was turning to leave, I remembered a jar of jam I had in my car for Chris, the center’s director.  Before leaving home, my eye had fallen on some jars of blackberry jam I’d canned last July and without analyzing why, I grabbed a jar to give to Chris.  When I asked Tim if he would give it to Chris for me, he looked a little puzzled.  Then, as if clearing up a mystery, he said, “Oh, you must know how much Chris loves blackberries.”  No.  I hadn’t known this—and then I explained the happenstance way my blackberry jam came to be in his hand.  Still coming to terms with the gift, Tim told me how Chris had just purchased two blackberry bushes that week and how pleased he was going to be to receive this gift.  Thanking me over and again, he hurried away with jam in hand, and I suspect his next stop was wherever Chris was working, so they could ponder and enjoy this perfect and mysterious gift of blackberry jam together.

 

He left me to ponder mysterious and perfect gifts as well, though mine was not as easy as a jar of blackberry jam.  I had come to reflect on the stories surrounding Jesus’ arrest and crucifixion.  I spent six hours at St. Francis – the same amount of time it took Jesus to die on the cross – and I’m not sure what gifts I carried home with me.  I’m still coming to terms with this – and it may take a lot more sorting out.  But I know I was chilled to the bone as I prayed these Scriptures.  And I know that the crucifixion of Jesus was not understood as some mysterious and perfect gift at the time it happened.  But similar to my own road that morning, the road for Jesus grew narrower and less civilized the closer he came to his final destination.  And when, he reached the cross, he had run out of road.        

 

Empty Nest

07 Tuesday Apr 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Prayer, Soul Care

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It’s a rare day at home without plans.  The gorgeous day lies before me with endless possibilities.  What will I do?

 

Whatever it is, the day began on a high note when the phone rang and it was Kate Louise.  Phone calls from my daughter Kate are exceedingly rare as her days and nights are full with new life.  In her first year as a registered nurse, she works for an OB-GYN practice in Norman, and when she’s not doing that, she shares life with her new husband Glen and her new step-children Ryan and Tayler and her own two munchkins, Jackson and Karson. 

 

As I listen to her talk about her busting-to-the-seams life, what with baseball and softball practice and games and gymnastics and devoting Saturdays to caring for her step-daughter’s infant, I am reminded of my own history of career woman by day and Suzy Homemaker-by-night, in those days of young adulthood when anything seemed possible if I only worked hard enough, when I measured fullness of life more by the stuff packed in than the stuff unpacked.

 

As I write this, I realize that even now, life is too full.  Why else would I treasure this rare day of having no plans?  My fullness comes no longer from raising money and children, but raising flowers and God consciousness and maybe helping others to do the same, as I undertake plans toward certification in master gardening and in spiritual direction.

 

What is it with certifications anyway?  I am a certified public accountant, though I no longer practice.  When I did, I found certification did not make accountants better than they were before receiving their certificate.  By the same token, I’ve learned from working the master gardening ‘hope desk’ that certification means very little in the way of practical knowledge.   And I imagine it will be no different in serving as another’s spiritual director.  Maybe certification is merely a sort of good housekeeping seal of intention to practice what cannot lead to perfection.     

 

The practice I most enjoy these days is writing.  It’s one of two daily practices that force me to empty and regularly sort through my everyday life.  Both invite me to tiptoe closer to eternity, where time grows so heavy it stops and where busyness has no meaning.  Maybe if I’m lucky, some of my written words will survive my death, and until then, perhaps the clarity they shed will allow me to live larger than life.    

 

It’s ironic that I most enjoy the practices where certifications are not given.  While certifications have inspired others to listen to my words, and even to pay me for them, the best listening happens without want of certifying, as the words written and prayed just naturally seek the right audience.  And maybe my own audience is the most important of them all, as prayer and writing force me to listen to my own life.   

 

I will leave today empty of plans.  And with this intention written and prayed, already a sense of fullness invades.  I scoot over to make room in my nest for something larger than me.   

Hidey Wholes

05 Sunday Apr 2009

Posted by in Far Away Places, Life at Home, Soul Care, The Great Outdoors

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“Hello darkness, my old  friend

I’ve come to talk with you again”

                                    –Paul Simon, The Sounds of Silence

 

Our fifty pound puppy Max is trampling through this old house at the speed of sound.  The floors groan in protest at such slip shod treatment.  Down the stairs and around two corners and he dives for his hidey hole—plunk…. plop. The space that once fit his so nicely, underneath our dining room buffet, now forces him to scrunch down low to enter.  But once there, he sprawls and stretches to match his entire length and width to the confines of his hidey hole.  He is safe from the torments of his world, which mostly come from his sister Maddie.  And within the sounds of silence, he falls asleep as his head rests on the floor.

 

Like Max, I retreat to catch my breath, to release dark thoughts and to breathe in the aroma of fresh possibilities.  When I empty myself, it gives God room to work a miracle, maybe not overnight, but over the space of my life.  Breath by breath, I work to quiet the riots fighting for attention in the streets of my mind.  I expel the darkness so it no longer eats away at my soul.  Nightly examen is a refuge against the goblins of the night.  And it helps me see those sneaky solutions that come by special delivery, from an angel of light tapping me on the shoulder.   

 

As I write this, two of my friends are seeking asylum from the dark cares of their world.  One has packed up her two cats and a pile of books to go sit out by a river that runs near her country cabin.  Another runs with music in her ear and the wind in her face. As she runs, I envision her becoming lighter than air, as the weight of anxiety and troubles lag far behind. 

 

I’ve written both friends this week to let them know they are not alone in their cares.  The words I normally devote to this blog were offered yesterday to the friend who runs.  I needed her to know that I was cheering her on from the sidelines, just as if she were running the Boston Marathon, because the kind of trouble she faces may not be solved with a quick sprint.  And after she empties from all her running, I invited her to surround herself with all that makes her most whole.  As I always do, I invited my dear friend to breathe.

 

“Breathe dear friend.  Breathe in the aroma of the living God—breathe in the fragrance of spring grass and flowers and salty ocean air.  Run barefoot on the sandy beach and let the water lap around your ankles.  Let the breeze caress your face and dry your tears.  And know that God is not “up there somewhere’ but as close as the air you breathe, that fills your lungs and rests around your heart.”

 

Through the sounds of silence, healing will find both of us… as well as my other friend who sits by a running river and Max who rests under the buffet.  Wholeness will come to those who wait, even in dark hidey holes.