tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89664986830616854612024-03-04T20:03:14.991-08:00Vintage Wisdoma blog about my aunt's journals
{circa 1930}
a lifetime has passed, but the meaning in life remainsAlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8966498683061685461.post-44666036445672887892011-04-01T09:28:00.001-07:002011-04-01T10:19:36.075-07:00NaPoMo - April 1 -- She Sings, She SpeaksHappy am I for a song to sing<br />
A small song<br />
Caught upon the wings of the air<br />
Alighting<br />
To be heard by anyone,<br />
Everyone, or no one but myself.<br />
A soul.<br />
A song<br />
That I thrust into the open air-<br />
Let the air take it and make of it what it will.<br />
A bit of laughter,<br />
A streak of tears,<br />
A dark smudge of fear,<br />
A weight of regret;<br />
Knotted notes<br />
Set free.<br />
Redeemed. <br />
So it's my song. It is me. It is my past, my hopes of what may be.<br />
A passing ditty perhaps:<br />
pulsing frail, screaming hilarity,<br />
the soft repose of purging fullness<br />
that otherwise had it not been released<br />
possessed the strength to strangle the insides that gave it birth.<br />
<i>Sing!</i><br />
<i>Sing! Little bird-</i><br />
The Wind whispered in my ear<br />
Becoming stormclouds beneath my wings<br />
Shuddering, gathering up <br />
Giving flight<br />
and the expanse of blue to call Home.<br />
<br />
** A little poem for NaPoMo. Make of it what you will, but do this one thing for me in exchange for looking at scraps of my soul: sing. Sing and find the free joy He has for you.<br />
<br />
Sing your song, little sparrow. Wind carries music where it will-- your song is necessary.<br />
<br />
Ann Voskamp and <a href="http://shespeaksconference.com/">SheSpeaks </a>conference are offering a scholarship,<br />
<a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/2011/03/how-christians-create-art-she-speaks-scholarship/">A Holy Experience</a>, an opportunity to learn the tune to the songs we have to sing.<a href="http://shespeaksconference.com/"></a>AlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8966498683061685461.post-71796694679491683742010-08-07T22:51:00.000-07:002011-03-31T09:52:45.614-07:00Berries Left on the Vine<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br />
</b></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQOPuiNjkZINBTaKI9RuBVxWNamVyHXy7-PkSd-yWPGuohbIT83Etc2v9gv7x9La_FeQo2WQPSHagBOd7Zr4qPvYWPAkGdIEPLS5gAUF2KrxQFOxMlXs0Wdb4FtZ0Gr9GDRMpo5Mmf5sH/s1600/IMG_6536.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQOPuiNjkZINBTaKI9RuBVxWNamVyHXy7-PkSd-yWPGuohbIT83Etc2v9gv7x9La_FeQo2WQPSHagBOd7Zr4qPvYWPAkGdIEPLS5gAUF2KrxQFOxMlXs0Wdb4FtZ0Gr9GDRMpo5Mmf5sH/s640/IMG_6536.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Comedy merges into tragedy and smiles put rainbows in our tears.</span></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><b> -unknown</b></span><br />
<br />
Summer's passed her mid-way point.<br />
<br />
July has rounded the bend in languished heat into August.<br />
<br />
It's dark and I'm crying a little bit.<br />
<br />
Something about the pace of my life leaves me just short of reaching my goals, out of breath and a bit bewildered, as if I'm riding a spinning carousel and trying to find something, anything to focus on for more than a second or two.<br />
<br />
I don't have lofty goals, really. But some days every single thing I begin is left undone by setting sun.<br />
<br />
But that's not really why I'm crying.<br />
<br />
I've left raspberries on the vine. Unpicked. Unpickable. They are hanging, clinging, drying remains of the berries they must have been last week, or the week before that. I was simply too busy to notice.<br />
<br />
I set about this evening to pluck whatever juicy berries remained. Dusk came closing in and I stood in the back corner of my yard, surrounded by nearly wild raspberry canes and weeds four feet tall. And there I cried.<br />
<br />
The first few years that I had gardened, we, my oldest daughter (then age 5) checked the raspberries throughout July to see if they were ready. She insisted on tasting the first red berry, not waiting for it to really ripen. It wasn't sweet; in fact not-quite-ready-raspberries can be shockingly tart. We had time to watch the berries ripen. Now, my oldest daughter (age 15) is at a concert that she went to after she was done at work, and I'm wondering how fast does time fly, really.<br />
<br />
At the speed of light, I believe.<br />
Because it was just a flicker of light ago that she was little girl and we had time to actually be in the garden, tend it, participate in it.<br />
A flicker of light ago I moved to my new house and brought much of my garden with me, including my raspberries.<br />
A flicker of light ago we brought home daughter no.2 from the hospital. That was the spring after 9/11. The spring following a harrowing winter of financial fear, of nearly losing our home, of weeks of dry-walling the basement to make more bedrooms for our growing family.<br />
A flicker of light ago.<br />
<br />
A flicker of light ago and the time is flying. My babies are growing, my house isn't new anymore, the raspberries are left to dry on the vine, and all I can do is enjoy my babies, love living in my house and hope I do better in the garden next year.<br />
<br />
And I can embrace the truth in the words my aunt penned in her notebook:<br />
<br />
Comedy merges into tragedy and smiles put rainbows in our tears.<br />
<br />
and,<br />
<br />
The whole perspective changes with the shifted position of the eye and depends not on the subject, but on the man who is looking. (Irving Stone)<br />
<br />
Sure, my life is busy. But there are worse things to leave undone than unpicked raspberries. Oh, I don't want to miss out on those. <br />
<br />
I want to pluck the juicy, beautiful fruit of life and taste it right there in the garden. I want to relish the sweetness of it:<br />
of a life of loving others well;<br />
of giving and receiving;<br />
of learning to take the steps of faith that change me;<br />
of choosing to serve and forgive and forgive some more;<br />
of understanding that I can make mistakes and I can make them right;<br />
of knowing the garden of life is tended by a Gardener that isn't held captive by seasons, and in his garden, the fruit ripens at the right time. <br />
<br />
I can remember to shift my position and allow my whole perspective to change, because that doesn't take any time at all -- it just takes a willingness to look at things differently.<br />
<br />
Because while my raspberries were over-ripening and withering, I was busy living the life set in front of me to live. So what if it's moving at the speed of light -- light always has a rainbow in it. I just have to look for it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZG7ZnKdJonFZQi-vd6aPK7-Yi3OBfMh4bT9Msrvcubl5EqyyrgNXWMZz4xsu57Se4SMOvMhWjAS2GCuLFTDTYCvVYObVVKlnSnTZB1hBZyDO0oqY8u_gQDTajHjRBXXB4MW0QIwf5v7G/s1600/IMG_6477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZG7ZnKdJonFZQi-vd6aPK7-Yi3OBfMh4bT9Msrvcubl5EqyyrgNXWMZz4xsu57Se4SMOvMhWjAS2GCuLFTDTYCvVYObVVKlnSnTZB1hBZyDO0oqY8u_gQDTajHjRBXXB4MW0QIwf5v7G/s640/IMG_6477.JPG" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6RGHqq8qxiYpoZJo7seJSTwVyx2LxAPFZo9Y8funY8rMnTgGINFJ94zSMW9xtfVpPWdSDYia7o86XYxUd90wr-W-Zhf5Wy7T_a03DM2NsJnAhZLtDKFSNxsqxJIKjg6UEjcena3KieRVL/s1600/IMG_5960.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6RGHqq8qxiYpoZJo7seJSTwVyx2LxAPFZo9Y8funY8rMnTgGINFJ94zSMW9xtfVpPWdSDYia7o86XYxUd90wr-W-Zhf5Wy7T_a03DM2NsJnAhZLtDKFSNxsqxJIKjg6UEjcena3KieRVL/s400/IMG_5960.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>AlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8966498683061685461.post-27166898077153351142010-06-10T02:51:00.000-07:002010-06-10T02:58:56.496-07:00Fighting When I Should Be Sleeping<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It is by fighting the limitations, temptations and failures of the world that we reach our highest possibilities."</span></span><br />
Helen Keller<br />
Recorded by Lucille, December 27, 1930<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUp1QGQv0q_ZAh3aFM1OPQulDDO6TDoeBp1m3qJMj347SkzwZeEhid26lYR0-Pf7xQlshoUUkERpzfRzfFe0KMa2VJgFFhm8oSDEKtYOGgRoBtpNm_wtGc14CKfUxzZdK6JpzRlDhEhTko/s1600/IMG_4575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUp1QGQv0q_ZAh3aFM1OPQulDDO6TDoeBp1m3qJMj347SkzwZeEhid26lYR0-Pf7xQlshoUUkERpzfRzfFe0KMa2VJgFFhm8oSDEKtYOGgRoBtpNm_wtGc14CKfUxzZdK6JpzRlDhEhTko/s320/IMG_4575.JPG" /></a></div><br />
It's about two in the morning and I am wrestling.<br />
<br />
I am immersed in Ethiopia in my head. The house is quiet and the sounds and people and demands of the world as I've known it are all snoring softly in their beds.<br />
<br />
The world as I've discovered it, is wide awake.<br />
<br />
Ethiopia is eleven hours ahead, so my friends working across the Atlantic are busy tackling the sounds, people and demands of their world. Stephne might rescue a baby this day, or train an Ethiopian social worker. The doctors and staff at Soddo Christian Hospital may remove a tumor or repair an intestine. They will certainly save a life. They face a different sort of health care crisis there. Sam has returned to the children's home from his visit back to the states, his heart full to bursting and tearing as it's affections take root on two continents, for the children he's lived with these past sixth months have taken up residence in his heart.<br />
<br />
In my mind I'm in Ethiopia because a few things happened to me when I visited there last November.<br />
*One, I left a part of my heart there. How could I not? I met dear friends, hugged countless strangers, ate lamb cooked over a fire with kocho bread, listened to the joy-drenched voices rising from barefoot coffee farmers. I fell in love.<br />
*Two, I discovered that there was a part of my life I hadn't yet lived, would have entirely missed had I given into the pressing limitations, the perpetual temptations and the whispers of my past that worked as a team to try and talk me into staying put, right here in my cozy house. I would have missed it! I would never have known that I could participate in something that much bigger than my day to day life. I would have missed the opportunity to see the handiwork of a huge God as he faithfully revealed himself in Ethiopia.<br />
*Three, I realized that my personal "highest possibilities", well, I haven't attained them yet! Not by a long shot! But, I'm thrilled to know in my heart and by my experience that limitations, temptations and failures are lies but the fight is real and the joy is found in beating the lies down just enough to glimpse the higher things.<br />
<br />
There are failures of the world.<br />
<br />
There are failures of my life and even of this day.<br />
<br />
Sometimes the limitations, even the very small ones, when stacked upon each other like so many bricks, can seem to form a mountain insurmountable. Much like the one made of dirty dishes in my kitchen sink.<br />
<br />
They'll wait for tomorrow.<br />
<br />
For tonight, I'll keep working on the website ideas for New Covenant Foundation, I'll look at the pictures and remember that the failures of the world have built a mountain of poverty in places like Ethiopia, and it takes me, and you, and a few other willing folks, to knock it down.<br />
<br />
<div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br />
</span></span></div>AlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8966498683061685461.post-52670925339943799652010-05-07T09:16:00.001-07:002010-05-07T13:00:59.308-07:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWdZjwn3Efe107f8tvlFcTox2cooG16CnZU6EMw9nQeoiyynceILe_fM2sxWecC3Le_ztN0KRXAg7p7uoedDOD_hezCCz-wNVu034QVKR5iwAWuRGeGvYsvMQybyKKG-OL3LApBR9H2O1/s1600/IMG_0487.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWdZjwn3Efe107f8tvlFcTox2cooG16CnZU6EMw9nQeoiyynceILe_fM2sxWecC3Le_ztN0KRXAg7p7uoedDOD_hezCCz-wNVu034QVKR5iwAWuRGeGvYsvMQybyKKG-OL3LApBR9H2O1/s1600/IMG_0487.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWdZjwn3Efe107f8tvlFcTox2cooG16CnZU6EMw9nQeoiyynceILe_fM2sxWecC3Le_ztN0KRXAg7p7uoedDOD_hezCCz-wNVu034QVKR5iwAWuRGeGvYsvMQybyKKG-OL3LApBR9H2O1/s1600/IMG_0487.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', serif; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The presence of God is unmistakable, regardless of its wrappings</span>.</span></a></div></span><br />
<div>Anon.</div></span></span></span></div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZNI9cQ2oFM353hSJxzXquYhHIGK57ZCnNQgRqSpivi8hD9BXA9Ywj_82qmgneDAJoTq7sTyNHxoGXDCYX2XCBsGlHkJARWLXhQqffmT8y4P90Qw-nwl0YFvE5IXUA3Yjj_uVt9KuFw-Q/s1600/IMG_0653.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468582686336037922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZNI9cQ2oFM353hSJxzXquYhHIGK57ZCnNQgRqSpivi8hD9BXA9Ywj_82qmgneDAJoTq7sTyNHxoGXDCYX2XCBsGlHkJARWLXhQqffmT8y4P90Qw-nwl0YFvE5IXUA3Yjj_uVt9KuFw-Q/s400/IMG_0653.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 267px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWdZjwn3Efe107f8tvlFcTox2cooG16CnZU6EMw9nQeoiyynceILe_fM2sxWecC3Le_ztN0KRXAg7p7uoedDOD_hezCCz-wNVu034QVKR5iwAWuRGeGvYsvMQybyKKG-OL3LApBR9H2O1/s1600/IMG_0487.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468582418481692754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWdZjwn3Efe107f8tvlFcTox2cooG16CnZU6EMw9nQeoiyynceILe_fM2sxWecC3Le_ztN0KRXAg7p7uoedDOD_hezCCz-wNVu034QVKR5iwAWuRGeGvYsvMQybyKKG-OL3LApBR9H2O1/s400/IMG_0487.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 267px;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"></span></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWdZjwn3Efe107f8tvlFcTox2cooG16CnZU6EMw9nQeoiyynceILe_fM2sxWecC3Le_ztN0KRXAg7p7uoedDOD_hezCCz-wNVu034QVKR5iwAWuRGeGvYsvMQybyKKG-OL3LApBR9H2O1/s1600/IMG_0487.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div></span></a><br />
<div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The passage in Lucille's journal, in June 1932 goes on to say:</div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><b><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jesus is God talking to the man on the street. </b></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><b><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He is the speech of eternity translated into the language of time. </b></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><b><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Old Simeon knew Jesus wrapped in a blanket! Orthodox scribes didn't <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>know him when he raised the dead. </b></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><b> </b></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><b><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>God's last word is Christ. </b></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><b> </b></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><b><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>He donned the tapestry of human flesh. Folks were deceived by the <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>wrappings he wore.</b></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He's talking to the man on the street, because he loves him.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He's speaking in the languages of time so all who hear may know.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He's willing to be seen and known by any who will recognize him for who he is.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">God's last word is Christ.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Have we recognized him, acknowledged him today? As we move about in the tapestry of our own humanity, can we consider the wrappings he wore, for us?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He had hands like my own -- hands capable of creating, touching, working, holding.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He enjoyed good food and loved his friends.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He breathed in morning air, cool and misted and he may have marveled like I do at dew-sparkles on blades of grass, as little green fields of diamonds.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He was remarkably, totally human in order that we might recognize him as God. And the gospel of his life, the manner in which he lived and died, testified that to God, all people matter. He spoke to the man on the street, talked in the language that people understood, began like the rest of us, a mere, helpless babe wrapped in blankets. Do you know him? Can you see him?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Does it matter?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When I was in Soddo, Ethiopia, a baby arrived at the orphanage. His arrival was simple, no balloon bouquets or staff of nurses floated around a hospital room in anticipation of his birth. His arrival was frightening -- his mother was a teenager, a victim of hostile rape, she had no milk, no hope at all to provide for him. Stoic she sat and retold her story. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The baby was as naked at three days old as he was the night of his birth. Not a stitch of clothing, only pieces of cloth wrapped about him as a makeshift blanket. He was three days old and had not tasted milk. His body was surviving on water and the nourishment he had taken from his mother in the womb. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He was desperate and didn't know it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He was starving yet had not the slightest idea of what it felt to be satisfied.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He was a victim of a circumstance larger than any of us know how to handle, to fix.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Yet his black eyes shone, his tiny fingers, perfectly formed, grasped with strength and precision of movement. He seemed to me very much like how Jesus may have been:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A baby born to a young woman under questionable beginnings -- weren't she and Joseph merely betrothed? They were desperately poor, had nothing but cloths to wrap the child and when he wasn't at the breast of his exhausted mother, he rested in a feeding trough.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The baby I held will soon be welcomed with grand fanfare into a family far away from his humble beginnings; a family that will value his life, invest in his future, delight in his babbling and first steps and base-hits. But, I saw in that baby, my Jesus. When I held him and watched him wrestle milk out of a little bottle, all I could think was, "This is why there is Jesus, because we are all like this tiny thing. This is the man on the street, his quiet cry the speech of eternity."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Do you, like old Simeon, recognize him? Do you know why he came? Can you find God today in the wrappings of your life?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc64MxoMnBRh4QmLIQ869i_g7kbgzXSIP5-Ip1ST2pLi3f_D91X3CN5tycJX1WDj0v2lgTw33sRxxui9p2DorL12gkH9dSrpShGZTIGO-wrAjcyqZSUFKWQ2JqJhzSgs7sPE26zJLNt_MD/s1600/IMG_4574.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468582428194186818" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc64MxoMnBRh4QmLIQ869i_g7kbgzXSIP5-Ip1ST2pLi3f_D91X3CN5tycJX1WDj0v2lgTw33sRxxui9p2DorL12gkH9dSrpShGZTIGO-wrAjcyqZSUFKWQ2JqJhzSgs7sPE26zJLNt_MD/s400/IMG_4574.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 267px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a></span></span></div><div><br />
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</div>AlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8966498683061685461.post-12364997306885156492010-04-22T10:14:00.000-07:002010-04-22T10:45:54.827-07:00Between the Edges<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJ-EPJJB0oKUqeslhfS__ZB_Hv4c90Q1Z2aLHycc4N3oj2yfGdjOkxrevqwyXMh1SHyMKAZP-S5G-wR31B9AlTXXX1841-TTkOKhTUDwOFhIjLU8FWGAOFGR7J5H21rxBxovC3s6QY0MF/s1600/IMG_0546.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJ-EPJJB0oKUqeslhfS__ZB_Hv4c90Q1Z2aLHycc4N3oj2yfGdjOkxrevqwyXMh1SHyMKAZP-S5G-wR31B9AlTXXX1841-TTkOKhTUDwOFhIjLU8FWGAOFGR7J5H21rxBxovC3s6QY0MF/s400/IMG_0546.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463019093353998930" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><i>"Wait!</i></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><i>Something is waiting </i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><i>and hidden around the corner of next week, </i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><i>between the edges of two days."</i></span></div><div>- Anon.</div><div><br /></div><div>What are you looking forward to?</div><div>An upcoming vacation? A weekend with a wide-open schedule?</div><div>A better job? Retirement? Your kids to clean their rooms? Your kids to come for a visit?</div><div>Summer? </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes, we don't look forward to next week, rather we dread it's arrival - perhaps it's too many bills piling up like so much dirty laundry, or it's so full of appointments and commitments that the days will march away as dutiful soldiers to General Busyness. I find myself counting the passing of time by Fridays -- paydays. The prize at the end of the week is the chance to pay some bills, buy some food and see what's left to save and spend. Sort of pitiful, I know.</div><div><br /></div><div>But to <i>wait</i>, in breathless anticipation of a surprise? </div><div><br /></div><div>We tend to leave that sort of thing up to children counting the days to the next birthday or break from school.</div><div><br /></div><div>What something could be waiting around the corner of next week? The opportunities are endless -- perhaps that something is as simple as </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>witnessing a sunset </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>or a poppy silently bursting onto the scene </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>or maybe that something is as life-changing as a newborn baby, a Thursday morning miracle of fingers and toes, tears and hope and love? Maybe it's a tragedy, or an opportunity, a reunion or an argument. <i>Something is waiting around the corner of next week, tucked between the edges of two days.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>We don't get to know until it arrives, perfectly timed and bundled in the wraps of the life we call human experience. I choose to believe nothing happens by chance and circumstance. I believe that each "something" tucked between the days is essential, meaningful and intentional. But who put it there? And why?</div><div><br /></div><div>These are the questions that the "somethings" lead toward. These are the questions that we must find when we gaze into the truth that the somethings are the most real evidence we have of a God.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are many somethings, tucked into the pages of my past, that I'd rather not remember. There are many somethings that seem too insignificant to bother recalling. Then there are the red-letter-days when the things tucked between the unforeseeable future and the past that's irrevocably woven into the tapestry of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">ME</span> shine out with brilliant flashes of purpose -- the somethings that made all the difference.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I make it to the middle of next week, if I turn the corner and amble onward a few more days, will I notice the somethings tucked in the edges? Will I look for it? Will I anticipate it's arrival? Will I allow it to become a part of me? Will you? </div><div><br /></div><div>Let's! Just to see what happens?! Just to feel like and eight-year-old, counting on her fingers to the joy of a long-awaited birthday celebration--and let's open the gift that that "something" may be, and accept it with heart and arms wide open. Let's see what happens.</div><div><br /></div>AlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8966498683061685461.post-23311532598567029482010-04-14T11:38:00.000-07:002010-04-14T11:42:50.073-07:00Little Words<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCuA14izM-1I2b2Jf3zim295r7HttpqurF0SoWCvqxDdiuZ0saxl8gavIR5mPcYIsVg8ckf8_RR0mA6hEfhWiAz3hi4KhQUUGarTm16IrjYPJerB-dc3_NcGCUVeZGKidfiNCmP_VRx_TS/s1600/IMG_3372.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCuA14izM-1I2b2Jf3zim295r7HttpqurF0SoWCvqxDdiuZ0saxl8gavIR5mPcYIsVg8ckf8_RR0mA6hEfhWiAz3hi4KhQUUGarTm16IrjYPJerB-dc3_NcGCUVeZGKidfiNCmP_VRx_TS/s320/IMG_3372.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460065263210931538" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">August 23, 1930</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">“All the big words I know are little ones – </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Sky</span></span></i><span style="font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> is a little word, but it is all infinity,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">All of height and depth and blue and air and sun and sea…</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">If</span></span></i><span style="font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> is a little word,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">But it is all might have been, might be, was and will be…</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">All the big words I know are little ones.”</span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">P.K.L.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Don’t we tend to get caught up in big things? Concerts, buffets, tragedies, bank accounts, disagreements, mergers, earthquakes….</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Eighty years ago, my aunt copied this poem into a composition book. Perhaps it was an assignment or maybe it spoke something to her. Maybe she saw the lighthearted irony that small words describe great, big things. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Maybe she thought of some that came to my mind, as well: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">why, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">love, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">pain, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">hate, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">fly, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">die, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">star, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">sun, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">kiss, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">but, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">no, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">yes.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I love words. I love to string them along like beads on golden threads and feel the balanced weight of them upon my chest, hear them clatter upon one another making tiny, tinny music. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I love the glorious pause in the silence following the last lexis of a book—to think, all those words strung together along one theme and they culminate in one, final word! I love the truth (or the lies) and the stories that they tell. I love how words give to my imagination a language with which to dream and a voice with which to speak. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">We can write them, or shout them, swallow them or sing them. We use them to introduce ourselves, do business, make marriage vows, say goodbye, encourage and teach. We use them to hurt, to manipulate, to heal, to say important things, like </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">yes</span></span></i><span style="font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> and </span></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">no</span></span></i><span style="font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">, </span></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I forgive you, I love you, I’m sorry, you’re important to me, stay with me, leave now, I believe you, here I am, thank you</span></span></i><span style="font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Maybe big things are quite big enough without large words to encumber them. When I consider the sky or the sea, or the immensity of a star, there isn’t much to say – for the great, vast reality of these things speak for themselves. I consider them and one word envelops me: awe.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">God is a little word. People wrestle with and even fight about how to describe him, ignore him, praise him and find him. Jesus is described in John 1 as The Word. Jesus used two little words to describe himself that caused outrage, repentance, indeed a revolution: I AM.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Little words that made a big difference. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">All the big words I know are little ones.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">You. Are. Loved.</span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->AlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8966498683061685461.post-35916778835396920772010-04-12T11:12:00.000-07:002010-04-12T11:32:24.197-07:00Skirting on Edges<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAJTdnQjJuYiCRNdKYzgXUzyGIz_muWqRcS3-zrz0BWNovHItAzkO8EtDrzjiLctpmMlDkmcGK53T1Pb425F2JUsHfkq0THIbUNlF2EdIP_c_bTra90K8PdUOn1-lb06pC2pRRgETmTyAt/s1600/IMG_4668.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAJTdnQjJuYiCRNdKYzgXUzyGIz_muWqRcS3-zrz0BWNovHItAzkO8EtDrzjiLctpmMlDkmcGK53T1Pb425F2JUsHfkq0THIbUNlF2EdIP_c_bTra90K8PdUOn1-lb06pC2pRRgETmTyAt/s400/IMG_4668.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459319399630501938" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoBodyText"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">“Monotony skirts the edge of boredom and limits begin to seem like limitations."</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> – Daniel G. Mason, “Dilemma of American Music, And Other Essays”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Baskerville, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Baskerville, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Baskerville, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Baskerville, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> Have you viewed the limits in your life as limitations? I have.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Have you looked around your life, looked at your daily list, or simply looked at the weather beyond the window glass and turned sighing while the doors of promise quietly shut, one by one? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Have</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> the limits of the day-to-day determined the course of your life, the quality of your existence or the brilliance of your relationships?</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Have you chosen to be steered along by the plodding monotony of your perceived limitations rather than be surprised by your ability to syncopate, to change things up just a little?</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">When Mary Lennox (</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Secret_Garden"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The Secret Garden, Burnett</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">) discovered a key that turned the rusted knob sequestered behind tangled vines, she pushed open a door that led to a world of… limitations.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Yep. An overgrown mess of a garden, overrun with weeds and plants left to go wild awaited her on the other side of that door. It was work, work and more work. It was labor she was unaccustomed to in the dirt of a subject she knew nothing about.</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">She was limited by the scope of the reality of the world beyond the silent gate.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">She was limited by her size, age, knowledge, experience.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">She was limited by what others thought she should, could, and mustn’t do.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">She was limited by dawn and sunset.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Yet the invitation, carried in the scent of misted moors and small peat cottage-fires, drew her out of the monotony of the life that was already hers in her uncle’s mansion.</span></span></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">And so, she got her hands dirty.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">She made new friends.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">She changed a life.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">And she changed hers in the process.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Baskerville;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">What limits are you facing today? What monotonous cacophony is holding you in one place, afraid of the possibilities of your limits? Will they be limitations or a doorway to something that is not yet, but promises to be: beautiful.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->AlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8966498683061685461.post-77094403394478112362009-08-25T11:10:00.000-07:002009-12-08T09:08:26.037-08:00Life Above<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JChReR1rATnmPU6j7pqQfX512YIYTAg_JtJ3ASH84LN2h-uc69EFt_oHh7HvkfINmVBVFFcIbP6C-C1QHFAJl43nbcRRvlaiV7bkvgWhF9mjrPbEOAZOKw7e3XupvGHw_I0v_njWwPLU/s1600-h/allan-gilbert-all-is-vanity.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 302px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JChReR1rATnmPU6j7pqQfX512YIYTAg_JtJ3ASH84LN2h-uc69EFt_oHh7HvkfINmVBVFFcIbP6C-C1QHFAJl43nbcRRvlaiV7bkvgWhF9mjrPbEOAZOKw7e3XupvGHw_I0v_njWwPLU/s400/allan-gilbert-all-is-vanity.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412912852258143618" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Some people think out a philosophy –</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Some live one.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">June 1934</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">[I’m unsure whether this is quoted text from someone else, or Lucille’s own words, but it stopped me short!]<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>I think the above phrase attempts to define a word or a trait that is difficult to aptly describe: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">integrity</span>.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>A person whose life and character are marked by integrity lives out her philosophy of living consistently despite the changing environment in which she may find herself. Whether buffeted by trials, plagued by loneliness or sickness or blessed by sunny prosperity, a woman (or man) of integrity maintains the same value system and her daily life is marked by such commitment by the choices she makes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It doesn’t mean that she doesn’t stumble or make mistakes or falter, rather it means that the overall scene of her life is consistent and not dualistic. It means that what you see is what you get, and even if it’s not perfect it is reliable.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>An ink drawing titled “Vanity” by C. Allen Gilbert shows a lovely woman setting before her vanity table gazing in the mirror at her loveliness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If you alter your focus, you can see the picture is really of an ugly skull with gaping black sightless eyes. Artists throughout the centuries have depicted virtues and vices through allegory and in the Victorian Era there was a trend in the dualistic impression of optical illusion (another popular drawing depicts the devilish nature of gossip). The drawing was meant to incite discussion, rumination and self-examination. But it’s the idea of the optical illusion that I find interesting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Is it the skull or the pretty lady one sees first? Are both images “in” the picture, or is it what we see? Is it perspective or reality?<o:p></o:p></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>In her book, <u>Use What You’ve Got and Other Business Lessons I Learned From My Mom</u> , self-made real estate baroness, Barbara Corcoran says (and my quote here is not precise), “Most people think reality defines perspective, but actually it’s the other way around.”<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>The truth is, integrity is such a nebulous concept because the <i>observer</i><span style="font-style:normal"> defines it: his or her own life experiences and perspective trains the eyes to perceive reality in a unique and individual way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Try as we may to be women of integrity, the observer’s vantage point and personal experience, much like how we view and respond to art, affects the overall impression. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">An artist creates sketch after sketch and preliminary paintings to “practice” the message he wants to create through painting so the philosophical message isn’t just stated but actually transcendent from something two-dimensional to something soulful, imbued with the ability to create a stirring of emotions. These practice runs aid the artist in discovering and understanding for himself what he’s trying to communicate to the observer. How many practice drawings are tossed out in the “working out” of a great painting?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>So, is living out a personal philosophy actually practicing, discovering and understanding one’s own self? Can we live out our own philosophy of living while we’re still developing and refining the message of our lives?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I like to think so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I love the truth that nothing is static.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">We live on a planet that is hurtling through space at an unimaginable velocity.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Everything living on this planet is changing, growing, moving, dying. Water is rushing, evaporating, freezing, falling. Seeds are forming, flying, sprouting and producing flowers that are blooming and fruit that satisfies and holds within its flesh even more seeds.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>So mistakes are actually freeing and change is the nature of living, and integrity is not aimed at convincing others of our consistency or perfection, but instead it is the “working out” of the message of our lives while we are living it.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>The apostle Paul, in his letter to the church in Philippi, talked about the external ceremonies and accomplishments that he, at one time, considered had made him a man of integrity and a man of practical righteousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In the face of grace and the lordship of Jesus Christ, everything he once touted as emblems of his personal perfection became rags of useless human effort (garbage), and he <i>moved on</i><span style="font-style:normal"> toward “God’s call through Christ Jesus to the life above.” (Philippians 3:14) What marked Paul as a person of integrity was his fluid, human, graced-by-the-blood-of-Jesus, flawed, passionate philosophy to live big for God, whatever the cost, whatever the season, regardless of human perspective.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Now, the charge I give myself is the freedom to fail. To “forget what is behind me and do my best to reach what is ahead” (Philippians 3:13), gives me the space to acknowledge, feel, apologize, forgive both mine and others’ mistakes so that I can run, discover, grow, and win the “life above”.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->AlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8966498683061685461.post-43906071307634004572009-08-01T17:20:00.000-07:002009-08-01T17:51:58.326-07:00Respect Comes First<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6Zh5etFUR94VGG0myH1FQKcDHXiaLmFiwkJ7fe_WhoVQ7A5yHqldUS7uHa_fcZWzJJarZpoW01yK9wnShvSH0hUEMkevweGYzWeUSdb34AmO5ZD777A-StgrUqT-2uveh39l3nsjfyEd/s1600-h/IMG_3390.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6Zh5etFUR94VGG0myH1FQKcDHXiaLmFiwkJ7fe_WhoVQ7A5yHqldUS7uHa_fcZWzJJarZpoW01yK9wnShvSH0hUEMkevweGYzWeUSdb34AmO5ZD777A-StgrUqT-2uveh39l3nsjfyEd/s320/IMG_3390.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365161964728334754" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2z0NTWwQAH8Dl1oY780rjBkztqsjaSe_iJET0x8XHoIaVNGIGeGL-qqjEp6RRBCxotVH8e78e8lHMSvCGYQMQXwidkEzH12ZuYcpJbsfz3sfNT9JVSo7JBsgEe7lyFzkCjpwtS6Lb-9YD/s1600-h/IMG_3726.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2z0NTWwQAH8Dl1oY780rjBkztqsjaSe_iJET0x8XHoIaVNGIGeGL-qqjEp6RRBCxotVH8e78e8lHMSvCGYQMQXwidkEzH12ZuYcpJbsfz3sfNT9JVSo7JBsgEe7lyFzkCjpwtS6Lb-9YD/s320/IMG_3726.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365161961740657042" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj87eqlewGlJhTsoaRyfB65X3UYno6TMoN5hFv5Vz_OEtw0ENdsaZrDTz6xdnas281MJhSVMbfHcCaigD2knV0BY3hGCLp1dx9CgZU9v1M9G1ocNxFNRJA12l8Xy1ZvPtYJbzRmu6tZLZT5/s1600-h/IMG_3723.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj87eqlewGlJhTsoaRyfB65X3UYno6TMoN5hFv5Vz_OEtw0ENdsaZrDTz6xdnas281MJhSVMbfHcCaigD2knV0BY3hGCLp1dx9CgZU9v1M9G1ocNxFNRJA12l8Xy1ZvPtYJbzRmu6tZLZT5/s320/IMG_3723.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365161952400139234" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXkDJwhCjrXkbIHfYqreMoBWEe2KPyZ3CyyTiAeztJcykM3tU7qts-rQqkKjilRWnQ6We2z4rXQy8wuTfn7yvujkBfHMwnRBAxGF23A0KW4Y3WIR8RPF1prn_7Fpxqsrrpux6g6VLh4Tr/s1600-h/IMG_3353.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXkDJwhCjrXkbIHfYqreMoBWEe2KPyZ3CyyTiAeztJcykM3tU7qts-rQqkKjilRWnQ6We2z4rXQy8wuTfn7yvujkBfHMwnRBAxGF23A0KW4Y3WIR8RPF1prn_7Fpxqsrrpux6g6VLh4Tr/s320/IMG_3353.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365161946238626898" /></a>{Top: Bella and I, Mid: Tam and I, Bottom: Angelo and I -- these are three people I respect and love :)}<br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The basis of any true friendship is respect.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">(because lasting love demands respect.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Unusual, strong, passionate, deep love requires no respect – that theory sounds well written but does not work in real life, because if we love someone there is something in him that arouses that love and that “something” quality we have respect for.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Therefore respect comes first and is the foundation and cause of our love. – L.M.)</span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The parenthetical portion above were thoughts of Lucille’s. She wrote this selection sometime in 1930 – almost eighty years ago! Talk about timeless wisdom.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">But don’t we all find ourselves in friendships bereft of respect?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t know about everyone else, but I have had times when I wondered if I had any true friends at all. I have felt disrespected by others that I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ve</span> invested so much of myself into, and in the discomfiting alone-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ness</span>, I felt my own self-respect ebbing into the darkness that engulfed my once sunny friendships. The more I questioned my own value in the eyes of these former friends (and boyfriends a long time ago) the more my value of self slipped away. I began to see myself as I thought they saw me and I entered the downward cycle of self-blame and self-pity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Perhaps the cornerstone of the foundation of respect that Lucille refers to is the true and straight and honest valuation of self, for how can we respect others when the perspective we turn inward is askew? When I place my personal value on performance, acceptance, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">likeability</span>, accomplishment, the admiration of others, it’s like using a lumpy chunk of sandstone as the cornerstone of a building. It’s a disaster just waiting to fall apart. Here’s a little story to illustrate:<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">I recently visited my friend in Long Beach, California. We drove around all the historic neighborhoods admiring the interesting and beautiful homes built a century ago in one of California’s up-and-coming, prosperous beach cities. One circa-1920 mansion, not far from her art-deco apartment building rested in decline on a valuable piece of land just a few minutes walk from the beach.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“That house needs some TLC,” I remarked.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“They can’t do anything with it,” she informed me, “They just have to live in it that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I found out that the house was moved to this location but it was placed on a faulty foundation. Why it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">hasn</span>’t been condemned, no one knows, but the foundation is falling apart under the house. It would cost a fortune to raise up the house and build a new foundation underneath it, so no one has.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">A beautiful location and a lovely house set on a crumbling foundation. No one cares for the gardens or paints the stucco exterior of the house and it shamefully stands out notoriously on a block lined with well-tended, historical homes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In disrepair and neglect it waits for the inevitable.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">A lasting edifice, like a European castle, demands a foundation that will stand up to the weight of years and pressure. A lasting love demands respect. An honest valuation of oneself and a clear respect for the other based upon truth, not simply performance or passion or even strong bonds of affection (like family, marriage, years of friendship) lay out the foundation that a long lasting love relationship demands.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Can respect, rather than feelings, cause our love to both become and to grow? I think of Jesus as described in Philippians chapter two. He knew who he really was, he had a clear, honest understanding of his value, yet he chose to respect that which he created (us!) to become like us, walk and work and love and hurt among us. And he did this all for and because of us. Understanding fully the value of his creation enabled Jesus to treat us with respect. The interesting thing about Jesus is that he never treated people with contempt or disdain or disrespect. His healing, his good news, his touch, his love was available to anyone and everyone. He never wrote anyone off as a lost cause. Performance and accomplishment mattered less to him than purity of heart and charity toward others.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">How did Christ demonstrate respect?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">He touched the untouchable.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Embraced the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">un</span>-embraceable.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Spoke to those others would ignore.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Blessed the unimportant.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">He was willing to like, and to love, everyone.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">He taught in ways people could understand.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">He shared the secrets of heaven with nobodies.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Jesus’ love came from the unplumbed depths of his knowledge of our value to God.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">You are valuable. I am priceless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Everyone is precious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If we base our friendships on that, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">wouldn</span>’t things look different? <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Or, do we rather dumbly wait for the inevitable demise because we won’t pay the cost to lay a new foundation? The cost of going back to do the work correctly is great: everyone will find out; it’s risky; it could reveal a myriad of issues we’d have to deal with; it might not work…. The doubts press us away from doing things the better way.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">But it will work out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">That “something” quality Lucille wrote about that arouses respect and love will impel us--once we begin to be willing--to complete the course of action that respect demands. And the reward? We’re rewarded with love and a strong foundation for our relationships. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">We sometimes lie to ourselves and gloss over the obvious problems, just like the people who live in the house with a crumbling foundation. Subtle deviations from the truth all contribute to a foundation based on something riddled with fault-lines. Respect and love work in tandem, as fingers and thumb on a hand. To really grasp hold of something, we need all the parts of the hand actively working together.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“When respect comes first, it is the foundation and cause of our love.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Well said, Lucille. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"> <o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->AlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8966498683061685461.post-44557457322377315582009-06-24T00:01:00.000-07:002009-06-24T00:56:58.393-07:00Lucille's Journals<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:150%"><span style="Bell MT"font-family:";">I have in my possession a small stack of journals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Composition books in various degrees of dereliction, edges frayed and bindings fractured, in who’s yellowed pages are lines and thoughts and musings not my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>These diaries of a vintage nearly eighty years old all bear the name Lucille Andreano, a woman who, in the years of the writing of these journals, was coming into her womanhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:150%"><span style="Bell MT"font-family:";">In the glaring brightness of the dawn of adulthood, Lucille thought thoughts, dreamed dreams and found herself caught in the dilemmas of faith and doubt, human need and humanism, spirituality and wisdom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She was becoming a woman in modern times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The age of industry had catapulted the American economy into first position on the globe, yet signs of a nation cracking under greed and progressivism dotted the landscape of her view. She was the firstborn of three daughters born to an unlikely pair: a Protestant German farm girl and an Italian-immigrant Catholic cobbler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Many years separated the three daughters, and Lucille acted more of a mother to her sisters than the hard-working, book-keeping matron of the family.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She was an artist, first in soul, for she loved literature and the music of words and second, as a musician.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She received a benevolent gift of music instruction throughout her school years and eventually became a concert violinist, playing many years in chamber groups and later, in the LaPorte, Indiana Symphony Orchestra. I never really knew her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She was my aunt, my mother’s sister.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:150%"><span style="Bell MT"font-family:";">After Lucille’s death, her son passed letters and journals to my mother, the youngest of the three girls. After reading them herself, she, in turn, passed the journals on to me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I felt honored, truly, to be entrusted with them, because we are sadly a family of little “family history.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My own mom concerned herself with being an all-American girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>After all, with Hitler and Mussolini in their heyday during her youth, who would want to be known as an Italian or a German, let alone both, in small-town middle America? She didn’t learn to cook or speak Italian from her Daddy who had emigrated as a young man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She never inherited any family recipes or traditions from her mother, a full German-American, the eldest of thirteen children who was herself ostracized by her siblings for decades because of a family squabble over land inheritance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:150%"><span style="Bell MT"font-family:";">But that’s a different story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The journals I now keep with care in my own suburban home don’t tell the story of my deceased family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They don’t tell the story of my aunt’s life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They are filled with selections of writings that meant something, spoke something, to this woman I had only met once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was a child, and she an old woman who lived alone in a small apartment in New Hampshire, drapes drawn in quiet solitude. She meant little to me outside of the fact that my mother always admired her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She had extolled Lucille’s qualities of gentleness and care in her own childhood. She spoke in almost reverent tones about Lucille’s gift of music and the tragic loss of years when her husband refused to let her play her own violin, and later, of Lucille’s personal triumph in returning to public performing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Nevertheless, the journals sat for months on my closet shelf, safe from possible harm in my busy, child-filled home, but also, unread.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="Bell MT"font-family:";"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>My mom pestered me, asking nearly every time we spoke on the telephone, “Have you read your Aunt’s books yet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is so much in them that I think you’d like, that could lead you to write.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><span style="Bell MT"font-family:";"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>And, finally, I began to read her scrawling cursive, less neatly penned than had it been intended for readers but the deciphering was slow going at times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What I’ve found in these journals is a posthumous soul mate of sorts, less of an elderly matron and more of a youthful woman whose life was spread before her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The banquet of moral and spiritual ethical and educational choices was overwhelming to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:150%"><span style="Bell MT"font-family:";">There is no story or narrative, only thoughts, both belonging to others and herself, strung along like twinkle-lights illuminating the heart-song of a woman who I do not know, yet whose flickering light has been made known to me through passages, poems, wonderings and quotes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The ideas she felt led to reproduce on her journal pages are ideas that quite possibly would have struck me, had I read the same texts as she and the discipline to copy them down. Her inquiries of what drives a human to be good or kind or hard-working or moral in any sense are some of the same questions I’ve posed to myself, my God and others caught in my debate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She wanted desperately to love the Gospels, but misunderstandings of the Old Testament narratives and laws shattered her faith.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Into the broken lines of doubt extended the ideas and ideals of dozens of writers, philosophers and musicians.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:150%"><span style="Bell MT"font-family:";">Lucille was a woman who doubted, who was deeply passionate, who was seeking truth and true love, who loved art and music and people, and who most of all, questioned the purpose of her own existence. I found Lucille to be fascinating, human, lonely and most of all, loving. She felt poorly about her own goodness, yet to goodness was consistently drawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In these lights and shadows of quoted prose and poetry, reason and humor, I found a kindred spirit and a lover of words more like myself than I had imagined.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->AlyMaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06374168634672409749noreply@blogger.com0