It's easy to take care of those free, empty, in-between, too-tired-for-anything-else moments by opening the lid of my Pandora's Apple and chasing one rabbit trail after another, whittling down my email inbox, checking Facebook, reading an article or two, browsing recipes, updating my Etsy shop, skimming blogs, importing photos from my camera... I'm never "done" on my computer, and most things I do there require little creative energy or serious thought.
Most of these things are useful, and I don't think it's necessary or wise to give them all up, but if I keep the lid open for less time, I can still accomplish all that is important, and then what can I do with the time that is suddenly on my hands?
I can read -- right now, "Amazing Grace," a biography of William Wilberforce by Eric Metaxes. I'm inspired by the way his conversion to Christianity in his twenties completely reshaped his priorities and the way he spent his time. He thought it mattered how a Christian filled the hours in his day, and mourned the days he had wasted in parties, concerts, dinners, and idle sparring with his friends.
I can make music -- not only does it sharpen my mind and muscles to practice the mandolin, but I can be creative (a trait I received from my Maker) and I can use music to worship Him, on my own and with others.
I can write letters -- I can give someone the gift of taking time to nourish our relationship.
I can spend time in the Word and in prayer -- why is this not where I automatically turn with the in-between, discretionary moments of my day?
I can run -- this keeps my body healthy and also refreshes my mind, giving me time to take in the beauty of the day, pray over and release whatever is on my heart, fix my eyes on Jesus.
I can create -- I can sew or paint or dye scarves or make a card. Besides producing something that is often both beautiful and useful, creativity strengthens my mental abilities and satisfies and grows my soul.
I can look someone in the eye -- I can be present with others in the room, converse with them, ask a question or share an insight or just show that I am available.
I am glad for the change of surrounding and schedule this summer that makes me newly aware of the time I've been given. I am faced with a clean slate upon which to etch fresh daily habits and routines. I still think my computer has its place. But right now I think I'll close the lid and spend some time reading my book!
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Everyday Adventure
The sun was friendly that morning, with a melting warmth that didn't scorch, so welcome and freeing after the months of sweaters and boots. Midday Mom and I set out to cross Lake Washington, skirt around Lake Union, rumble across the Ballard Bridge over the Lake Washington ship canal, and tool up Market Street to Portage Bay Cafe. We found a booth across from the open kitchen where we could watch the chefs chop and stir, and slid into our seats. The menu tempted us with the berry filled breakfast bar, shallot jam, rustic toast, and house-smoked salmon. At last we made our choices and were soon served aromatic plates full of hearty brunch fare, a scrambled egg, shallot, & tomato grilled cheese sandwich for me and a sweet potato Brussels sprout frittata for Mom, both heaped with fresh peppery arugula. As we ate we talked about our coming summer apart and our plans and goals for the months ahead, memories of Mom's childhood, recent insights, and random girl chatter.
Appetites satiated, we went back out into the sun and decided to walk to the Ballard Locks, which we thought were close by. After a short meander we found they were indeed just around the corner from the cafe, and entered the English gardens on the grounds of the Locks. Trees and shrubs were in full May glory, and our pores were open to absorb the beauty of the moment. We trip-trapped across the walkways over the canal: large lock, small lock, dam with smelt slides (where the gushing water sent up a cool cloud of mist), fish ladder. A cruise boat entered the small lock while we watched; the gate closed behind it and the boat gracefully sank deep into the cement cage, then the gate on the other end opened and the boat motored out into Puget Sound. We walked back through the gardens on a different path, then returned to our car. But the day still beckoned to us, and we didn't drive home yet.
We drove slowly along Market Street, looking for what might catch our eye; then Mom said we were close to the church where she and Dad were married, so we turned up the hill and she followed a hazy instinct that led us off the busy thoroughfare and into a thicket of residential streets, right to a stone building with wide steps leading up to the front doors. We stopped and looked and I tried to see them as they were almost thirty-eight years ago; she texted Dad a picture of the church.
Back on Market Street we circled, looking for a place to park so we could peek into some of the shops and side streets. We slid into a shady spot and headed down an angled street lined with brick buildings filled with curious combinations of pubs and boutiques. The first store to lure us in was a new-and-used outdoor gear shop, where a rack of discounted sample garments yielded a new dress. I couldn't pass by the Fresh Flours Bakery, either, so we went in to let our eyes linger over the case, nod appreciatively when the counter help informed us of the great skill involved in making French macarons, and order iced tea, Jasmine green and a house brewed chai latte.
We were still crunching our melting ice as we made our way back over the Ballard Bridge, along the edge of downtown, and onto the freeway in the thickening afternoon traffic. As we picked up speed, we rolled up the windows and switched on the AC. We returned home where the lists and routines we had left behind were waiting for us, but our timeless day nourished souls that rightly long for something beyond schedules and duties.
Appetites satiated, we went back out into the sun and decided to walk to the Ballard Locks, which we thought were close by. After a short meander we found they were indeed just around the corner from the cafe, and entered the English gardens on the grounds of the Locks. Trees and shrubs were in full May glory, and our pores were open to absorb the beauty of the moment. We trip-trapped across the walkways over the canal: large lock, small lock, dam with smelt slides (where the gushing water sent up a cool cloud of mist), fish ladder. A cruise boat entered the small lock while we watched; the gate closed behind it and the boat gracefully sank deep into the cement cage, then the gate on the other end opened and the boat motored out into Puget Sound. We walked back through the gardens on a different path, then returned to our car. But the day still beckoned to us, and we didn't drive home yet.
We drove slowly along Market Street, looking for what might catch our eye; then Mom said we were close to the church where she and Dad were married, so we turned up the hill and she followed a hazy instinct that led us off the busy thoroughfare and into a thicket of residential streets, right to a stone building with wide steps leading up to the front doors. We stopped and looked and I tried to see them as they were almost thirty-eight years ago; she texted Dad a picture of the church.
Back on Market Street we circled, looking for a place to park so we could peek into some of the shops and side streets. We slid into a shady spot and headed down an angled street lined with brick buildings filled with curious combinations of pubs and boutiques. The first store to lure us in was a new-and-used outdoor gear shop, where a rack of discounted sample garments yielded a new dress. I couldn't pass by the Fresh Flours Bakery, either, so we went in to let our eyes linger over the case, nod appreciatively when the counter help informed us of the great skill involved in making French macarons, and order iced tea, Jasmine green and a house brewed chai latte.
We were still crunching our melting ice as we made our way back over the Ballard Bridge, along the edge of downtown, and onto the freeway in the thickening afternoon traffic. As we picked up speed, we rolled up the windows and switched on the AC. We returned home where the lists and routines we had left behind were waiting for us, but our timeless day nourished souls that rightly long for something beyond schedules and duties.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Making Music
When we had gone back for seconds, and our plates were emptied again, and conversation was easy, and the children were getting restless, we pulled out our instruments, right where we were on the covered patio, with the lavishly blooming lilacs for walls. There was a general twanging and humming as strings were stretched to the perfect pitch. Snatches of song from fiddle, mandolin, and banjo vied for preeminence as the children's voices had done a moment before, until the mother announced a title and strummed the first chords on her guitar, drawing the others into her song.
The only sister among a passel of boys sat beside me, both of us playing the mandolin, she with skill and grace, me a beginner, my fingers still learning the frets and chords. "G," she would say, looking and me and smiling, letting me know the key of the song. I watched her easy fingers with delight, and did what I could with my surprised and recalcitrant digits.
I'll Fly Away, Amazing Grace, When the Roll is Called up Yonder, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Turn Your Radio On, Come Thou Fount -- we rolled from one song to the next, the interludes often filled with "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" from the mandolin while the banjo was still hammering away at "I'll Fly Away" and the fiddle was racing off with a bluegrass tune. At last we would decide on something, and the singers would find it in their hymnals, and once more the disparate notes would slide into unity.
After we sang a few verses, often the fiddle would take a turn, flying over the melody with a touch of whimsy, a wash of grace. Sometimes the banjo would come in for a solo, leading in with a flourish and shining at every opportunity to ornament. The mandolin beside me only broke loose under cover of one of her brothers, when she thought she could blend in.
The two little boys, not yet ready to join the jam sessions, wandered in and out among the instruments and singers, one quiet and unobtrusive, the other walking where he pleased with a swagger and making up for it by bestowing his sparkling smile liberally on all.
We sang "In the Garden" for the children's grandma, and put our instruments back in their cases as the colors of the sunset faded over the lake. The gift of the music lingered with us, but for the children, the evening was not complete without a rousing game of "monkey in the middle," played with a foursquare ball and much laughter in a narrow courtyard. "Julie, do you want to play?" asked my fellow mandolin player. How could I refuse?
The only sister among a passel of boys sat beside me, both of us playing the mandolin, she with skill and grace, me a beginner, my fingers still learning the frets and chords. "G," she would say, looking and me and smiling, letting me know the key of the song. I watched her easy fingers with delight, and did what I could with my surprised and recalcitrant digits.
I'll Fly Away, Amazing Grace, When the Roll is Called up Yonder, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Turn Your Radio On, Come Thou Fount -- we rolled from one song to the next, the interludes often filled with "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" from the mandolin while the banjo was still hammering away at "I'll Fly Away" and the fiddle was racing off with a bluegrass tune. At last we would decide on something, and the singers would find it in their hymnals, and once more the disparate notes would slide into unity.
After we sang a few verses, often the fiddle would take a turn, flying over the melody with a touch of whimsy, a wash of grace. Sometimes the banjo would come in for a solo, leading in with a flourish and shining at every opportunity to ornament. The mandolin beside me only broke loose under cover of one of her brothers, when she thought she could blend in.
The two little boys, not yet ready to join the jam sessions, wandered in and out among the instruments and singers, one quiet and unobtrusive, the other walking where he pleased with a swagger and making up for it by bestowing his sparkling smile liberally on all.
We sang "In the Garden" for the children's grandma, and put our instruments back in their cases as the colors of the sunset faded over the lake. The gift of the music lingered with us, but for the children, the evening was not complete without a rousing game of "monkey in the middle," played with a foursquare ball and much laughter in a narrow courtyard. "Julie, do you want to play?" asked my fellow mandolin player. How could I refuse?
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Summer Foretaste
It's still April, but yesterday felt like summer. Mom's ladies' group was meeting in our home in the evening, so Dad, John, and I were expected to keep a low profile. I was in the kitchen when the ladies arrived, finishing cilantro rice, venison stew seasoned with lime and chilies, and avocado slaw for the boys and me. Mom had a pot of soup on the stove, too, for the women. They entered to savory smells and the clatter of pot lids and girl chatter, dressed in sandals and a bouquet of eager summer colors: peach, mint green, turquoise, pink. There were hugs and greetings while one lady unpacked her warm berry crisp and vanilla ice cream, tucking them into the oven and freezer to hold them at the perfect temperature. Another brought calla lilies to Mom and her sister, a token of thanks and of summer. They noticed John's starts, bending eager stems towards the big dining room window to soak up the light, and we talked about his farm plans and how they could get in line to buy his produce.
As the ladies dished up their soup and settled around the table, I checked my rice one more time and decided the boys and I could eat, too. I found them setting up the electric fence around the beehive, in preparation for protecting the inhabitants that would arrive on the morrow, and asked them to ready the picnic table. They carried it to a discreet location, away from the dining room window, and wiped the pollen from table and benches. Then we ferried the food and place settings out to the table from my staging area in the laundry room and dug spoons into our steaming bowls.
The chickens hemmed and hawed in their run behind the garden, wild with garlic and miner's lettuce and happy spring weeds. The grass, freshly mown, was bright and soft under our feet. The boys talked of farming equipment and bees and baseball; I listened in (they were talking about the Yankees vs. Mariners game, and Cano, who recently moved from the former team to the latter) and contemplated the robust rhubarb plant and what occasion was coming up that would require the baking of some kind of pie or tart or cake or muffin.
I remarked that ice cream would be an ideal finish to the spicy venison stew, and John reminded me that we had some in the freezer left from Tim's birthday celebration. But the ladies had now started their evening, and how could we retrieve the ice cream without disturbing them? The boys agreed that on the basis of my gender, I was the one for the job, and I began looking for an opportunity. When we heard the clink of dishes inside indicating that the women were in transition between table and living room, I made my move. I slipped into the kitchen in the midst of dishwasher loading and food clean up, fetched the ice cream, and returned to our quiet picnic. It was the perfect finale to our meal, and we savored it, lingered a bit more. But the sun, while still lighting the sky, was long gone from our tree-guarded yard, and the ice cream accentuated the cool of the evening. So, we filed quietly into the laundry room with our stacks of dishes, and the boys returned outside to finish their fencing while I slipped upstairs to put away things from the day, and to prepare for the next day and the night of rest.
As the ladies dished up their soup and settled around the table, I checked my rice one more time and decided the boys and I could eat, too. I found them setting up the electric fence around the beehive, in preparation for protecting the inhabitants that would arrive on the morrow, and asked them to ready the picnic table. They carried it to a discreet location, away from the dining room window, and wiped the pollen from table and benches. Then we ferried the food and place settings out to the table from my staging area in the laundry room and dug spoons into our steaming bowls.
The chickens hemmed and hawed in their run behind the garden, wild with garlic and miner's lettuce and happy spring weeds. The grass, freshly mown, was bright and soft under our feet. The boys talked of farming equipment and bees and baseball; I listened in (they were talking about the Yankees vs. Mariners game, and Cano, who recently moved from the former team to the latter) and contemplated the robust rhubarb plant and what occasion was coming up that would require the baking of some kind of pie or tart or cake or muffin.
I remarked that ice cream would be an ideal finish to the spicy venison stew, and John reminded me that we had some in the freezer left from Tim's birthday celebration. But the ladies had now started their evening, and how could we retrieve the ice cream without disturbing them? The boys agreed that on the basis of my gender, I was the one for the job, and I began looking for an opportunity. When we heard the clink of dishes inside indicating that the women were in transition between table and living room, I made my move. I slipped into the kitchen in the midst of dishwasher loading and food clean up, fetched the ice cream, and returned to our quiet picnic. It was the perfect finale to our meal, and we savored it, lingered a bit more. But the sun, while still lighting the sky, was long gone from our tree-guarded yard, and the ice cream accentuated the cool of the evening. So, we filed quietly into the laundry room with our stacks of dishes, and the boys returned outside to finish their fencing while I slipped upstairs to put away things from the day, and to prepare for the next day and the night of rest.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Curious
Early on in the Good Friday service Annie pattered down the pew to me. We didn't need to exchange words; I knew she was coming to sit in my lap, and she knew I would scoop her up in my arms. But the silence didn't last long.
She wanted to know where Papa was? I told her he was sitting in one of the front pews so he could get up when it was his turn to read. But then she wanted to know where are the front pews? Where IS Papa? She looked through the bulletin. "Which part are we on right now? Which part is Papa reading?" I told her we would have to wait and see.
So she turned her mind to other questions. Why are there candles? I told her the candles bring light, which is something that reminds us of who God is. "But God is not in the light," Annie told me, eyebrows peaked in confusion. "He is in the mountains!" I wasn't sure where this idea was sprouting from, but it wasn't really the right time to delve into a long explanation.
She wanted something to play with, but I had nothing. She was feeling chatty but I told her it was time to listen to Pastor Irwin, who was going to talk to us for a little bit. She was quiet for a moment, then thought of another burning question: "What is an Irwin?"
Pastor Irwin finished his short homily, and Annie was listening to the readings now. "What is 'guilty'?" she asked, picking up on a word she heard. "What is a vow?" And then, "Why did she say, 'eating body and blood'? We don't eat blood!" I told her that Jesus told us to eat His body and drink His blood. "But we don't like blood!" she protested. Well, no, but we need Jesus' body and blood to feed us. "But we don't eat his whole body, do we? We don't eat his tummy, right?" I explained that it was like a picture -- we don't eat His actual body, but He gives Himself for us and we need Him to survive. "Oh, Nana showed me a picture of Jesus dying on the cross," said Annie, at last finding a word in my mysterious whispers that she could relate to. "But we don't eat blood. We don't like blood, because blood is too spicy."
During the songs, Annie's hearty whisper disappeared, and her volume climbed. I asked her to be quiet, and she seemed shocked at this request. "Why do I have to have a quiet voice? I want to sing with you!" After all, everyone else was allowed to make noise. So I began telling her the next phrase of the song so she could sing it along with me. Then she would announce after she sang a phrase, "I sang 'mingled down' with you! I sang 'rich a crown' with you!"
She also noticed the ways people around her were participating in the song. "What does it mean when we close our eyes?" she asked me. I told her it meant we were thinking about the words of the song. Her follow-on question was, "Why are mama's eyes closed?"
As the evening went on, the lights dimmed till we were sitting in darkness, apart from the light shining on the cross and the candles, which were being extinguished one by one. Annie was interested in this, and took note that we could still see cracks of light coming in through the blinds, the last bits of daylight and the shining of the streetlight in the parking lot.
Then, we came to the point in the readings when Jesus died. We sat in darkness, and a drum began to beat a wild, accelerating song, evoking the earthquake that shook the world at the death of its Maker. All the people were silent, except for Annie. "What is that noise?" she whispered to me, and I told her it was a drum, reminding us of the earthquake after Jesus died. I wondered if she would be scared of the unfamiliar noise in the darkness, but a grin began to form on her face. "That is a silly noise!" she said. And as the drum faded into silence, a giggle began to bubble from little Annie, which I quickly hushed, not wanting to disrupt the story, the mood, the remembering we were all partaking of together.
Easter Sunday morning found Annie and me together again in the pew, this time as the church was filled with light. Annie was still filled with questions. "I want to see Jesus dying on that cross," she told me, looking to the front of the church. She was apparently aware that the cross was somehow central to the celebration, and she kept returning to it. "When will Jesus die on the cross?" she asked. I told her He already did! "But when will Jesus die on the cross again?" Never, Annie, never again. "Is that the cross that Jesus died on? Why did Jesus die on the cross? What is that lellow thing on the cross?" No it isn't the cross Jesus died on, and He died so that we could live, and that lellow thing is a white cloth representing Jesus' grave clothes that he left behind.
Her curiosity also extended to God. "Why can't we see God?" Because He is a Spirit, and just because we can't see Him doesn't mean He isn't here. "But I can't SEE Him!" She kept repeating this, working it over in her mind, and then a few minutes later I saw an opportunity. The door was open, and a breeze slipped in. Annie said, "I feel the wind blowing my hair." I asked her if she could see the wind. "Yes," she answered. "I see the wind blowing in the trees." Well, maybe it takes time to understand the idea of a spiritual world. But she did ask me if God was a man, so perhaps she has an inkling that there are real beings who aren't men.
And, when she was not fixed on the cross, she was watching Daddy. "Look! Daddy is playing his trumpet!" I told her it was a trombone. "No! It is a trumpet!" she insisted. Well, I told her, it's actually a trombone. "Oh, a trumpetbone," she said. When I smiled at her she got a twinkle in her eye and said by way of explanation, "I call it a trumpetbone." Okay, I agreed. Later when she was pointing out that Daddy was taking a break, she said, "Why is Daddy not playing his bonetrumpet?"
May I be as bold and earnest in my curiosity, in my observation of the world around me, in my quest for truth. And Annie, may you know the truth and be set free by it.
She wanted to know where Papa was? I told her he was sitting in one of the front pews so he could get up when it was his turn to read. But then she wanted to know where are the front pews? Where IS Papa? She looked through the bulletin. "Which part are we on right now? Which part is Papa reading?" I told her we would have to wait and see.
So she turned her mind to other questions. Why are there candles? I told her the candles bring light, which is something that reminds us of who God is. "But God is not in the light," Annie told me, eyebrows peaked in confusion. "He is in the mountains!" I wasn't sure where this idea was sprouting from, but it wasn't really the right time to delve into a long explanation.
She wanted something to play with, but I had nothing. She was feeling chatty but I told her it was time to listen to Pastor Irwin, who was going to talk to us for a little bit. She was quiet for a moment, then thought of another burning question: "What is an Irwin?"
Pastor Irwin finished his short homily, and Annie was listening to the readings now. "What is 'guilty'?" she asked, picking up on a word she heard. "What is a vow?" And then, "Why did she say, 'eating body and blood'? We don't eat blood!" I told her that Jesus told us to eat His body and drink His blood. "But we don't like blood!" she protested. Well, no, but we need Jesus' body and blood to feed us. "But we don't eat his whole body, do we? We don't eat his tummy, right?" I explained that it was like a picture -- we don't eat His actual body, but He gives Himself for us and we need Him to survive. "Oh, Nana showed me a picture of Jesus dying on the cross," said Annie, at last finding a word in my mysterious whispers that she could relate to. "But we don't eat blood. We don't like blood, because blood is too spicy."
During the songs, Annie's hearty whisper disappeared, and her volume climbed. I asked her to be quiet, and she seemed shocked at this request. "Why do I have to have a quiet voice? I want to sing with you!" After all, everyone else was allowed to make noise. So I began telling her the next phrase of the song so she could sing it along with me. Then she would announce after she sang a phrase, "I sang 'mingled down' with you! I sang 'rich a crown' with you!"
She also noticed the ways people around her were participating in the song. "What does it mean when we close our eyes?" she asked me. I told her it meant we were thinking about the words of the song. Her follow-on question was, "Why are mama's eyes closed?"
As the evening went on, the lights dimmed till we were sitting in darkness, apart from the light shining on the cross and the candles, which were being extinguished one by one. Annie was interested in this, and took note that we could still see cracks of light coming in through the blinds, the last bits of daylight and the shining of the streetlight in the parking lot.
Then, we came to the point in the readings when Jesus died. We sat in darkness, and a drum began to beat a wild, accelerating song, evoking the earthquake that shook the world at the death of its Maker. All the people were silent, except for Annie. "What is that noise?" she whispered to me, and I told her it was a drum, reminding us of the earthquake after Jesus died. I wondered if she would be scared of the unfamiliar noise in the darkness, but a grin began to form on her face. "That is a silly noise!" she said. And as the drum faded into silence, a giggle began to bubble from little Annie, which I quickly hushed, not wanting to disrupt the story, the mood, the remembering we were all partaking of together.
Easter Sunday morning found Annie and me together again in the pew, this time as the church was filled with light. Annie was still filled with questions. "I want to see Jesus dying on that cross," she told me, looking to the front of the church. She was apparently aware that the cross was somehow central to the celebration, and she kept returning to it. "When will Jesus die on the cross?" she asked. I told her He already did! "But when will Jesus die on the cross again?" Never, Annie, never again. "Is that the cross that Jesus died on? Why did Jesus die on the cross? What is that lellow thing on the cross?" No it isn't the cross Jesus died on, and He died so that we could live, and that lellow thing is a white cloth representing Jesus' grave clothes that he left behind.
Her curiosity also extended to God. "Why can't we see God?" Because He is a Spirit, and just because we can't see Him doesn't mean He isn't here. "But I can't SEE Him!" She kept repeating this, working it over in her mind, and then a few minutes later I saw an opportunity. The door was open, and a breeze slipped in. Annie said, "I feel the wind blowing my hair." I asked her if she could see the wind. "Yes," she answered. "I see the wind blowing in the trees." Well, maybe it takes time to understand the idea of a spiritual world. But she did ask me if God was a man, so perhaps she has an inkling that there are real beings who aren't men.
And, when she was not fixed on the cross, she was watching Daddy. "Look! Daddy is playing his trumpet!" I told her it was a trombone. "No! It is a trumpet!" she insisted. Well, I told her, it's actually a trombone. "Oh, a trumpetbone," she said. When I smiled at her she got a twinkle in her eye and said by way of explanation, "I call it a trumpetbone." Okay, I agreed. Later when she was pointing out that Daddy was taking a break, she said, "Why is Daddy not playing his bonetrumpet?"
May I be as bold and earnest in my curiosity, in my observation of the world around me, in my quest for truth. And Annie, may you know the truth and be set free by it.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Looking for Something to See
We watched a photography lecture last night, in which the instructor told us there were three important elements in an iconic photograph: great light, good composition, and an interesting subject. To put these together in a photograph, he told us, you have to learn to see.
This is what it means to be a writer, too. The subject has to be interesting; you have to have something to say. The composition or structure must be sound, fitting to the subject, creative, not distracting from what you are trying to say. And light -- what is a writer's equivalent to light? It is that which enables us to see, and the way it falls on our subject affects how we see it, and determines the voice with which we tell our story. The dawn of a new day allows for one kind of vision; midnight starlight quite another. In the bright and busy light of noon all is visible, but distraction abounds; twilight cloaks many details in shadow, narrowing our focus.
The photographer and the writer both find their best fodder not when they travel to exotic destinations and participate in extreme adventures, but when they learn to see what is going on in the every day. Each time the sun rises, there is something unique and fresh about the way its light falls on the earth; this is what makes art, what makes what I see different from what everyone else has seen, what gives me something to say.
Each morning when I am running in the woods and I round the corner into the clearing and climb to the rise where I can look past the forest to the west, I am eager to see what is there. Is the moon being swallowed up by the mountains? Is Seattle gleaming like the celestial city, throwing back the rays of the rising sun? Are the mountains blushing rosy under the steadfast gaze of the sun, who is like a bridegroom coming forth from his pavilion? Are the clouds tucked in close and grey over the mountain range, or hanging low and fleecy white in the valley? What colors and clouds are painted on the living canvas of sky, sometimes displayed only for the blink of an eye? Like the mercy of God that is new every morning, so there is something new for our eyes to take in with each new day.
I wonder if this is part of what it means to live in hope. Paul says "the creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed," which says to me that these sons have not been revealed yet, that there is something yet coming, something to wait for. Paul also tells us that God "chose us in [Jesus] before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight.... In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God's grace that he lavished on us with all wisdom and understanding." We are already chosen, redeemed, lavished upon. Yet still we wait.
The cycles of waiting and fulfillment that we live with on earth -- waiting for sunrise, for the birth of a child, for the coming of a desired event -- echo the way we wait for perfection as God's children.
The fulfillment we receive now, the mercy that is new every morning, is a foretaste of the time when all the promises will be completely fulfilled.
So I will wait in eager expectation for that final day, and in the meantime I will keep looking for pictures to take, for stories to tell, for the new way that light dawns each morning.
"O Israel, put your hope in the LORD, both now and forever." Now, today, even while I am waiting. Forever, when that hope will be sated.
Scriptures from Romans 8, Ephesians 1, & Psalm 131
This is what it means to be a writer, too. The subject has to be interesting; you have to have something to say. The composition or structure must be sound, fitting to the subject, creative, not distracting from what you are trying to say. And light -- what is a writer's equivalent to light? It is that which enables us to see, and the way it falls on our subject affects how we see it, and determines the voice with which we tell our story. The dawn of a new day allows for one kind of vision; midnight starlight quite another. In the bright and busy light of noon all is visible, but distraction abounds; twilight cloaks many details in shadow, narrowing our focus.
The photographer and the writer both find their best fodder not when they travel to exotic destinations and participate in extreme adventures, but when they learn to see what is going on in the every day. Each time the sun rises, there is something unique and fresh about the way its light falls on the earth; this is what makes art, what makes what I see different from what everyone else has seen, what gives me something to say.
Each morning when I am running in the woods and I round the corner into the clearing and climb to the rise where I can look past the forest to the west, I am eager to see what is there. Is the moon being swallowed up by the mountains? Is Seattle gleaming like the celestial city, throwing back the rays of the rising sun? Are the mountains blushing rosy under the steadfast gaze of the sun, who is like a bridegroom coming forth from his pavilion? Are the clouds tucked in close and grey over the mountain range, or hanging low and fleecy white in the valley? What colors and clouds are painted on the living canvas of sky, sometimes displayed only for the blink of an eye? Like the mercy of God that is new every morning, so there is something new for our eyes to take in with each new day.
I wonder if this is part of what it means to live in hope. Paul says "the creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed," which says to me that these sons have not been revealed yet, that there is something yet coming, something to wait for. Paul also tells us that God "chose us in [Jesus] before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight.... In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God's grace that he lavished on us with all wisdom and understanding." We are already chosen, redeemed, lavished upon. Yet still we wait.
The cycles of waiting and fulfillment that we live with on earth -- waiting for sunrise, for the birth of a child, for the coming of a desired event -- echo the way we wait for perfection as God's children.
The fulfillment we receive now, the mercy that is new every morning, is a foretaste of the time when all the promises will be completely fulfilled.
So I will wait in eager expectation for that final day, and in the meantime I will keep looking for pictures to take, for stories to tell, for the new way that light dawns each morning.
"O Israel, put your hope in the LORD, both now and forever." Now, today, even while I am waiting. Forever, when that hope will be sated.
Scriptures from Romans 8, Ephesians 1, & Psalm 131
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
One Quiet Moment
The children have been with us for a few days, and yesterday was a busy day with them. Get everyone dressed, convince them that they really do have to go potty so I'm not cleaning up accidents later, take the girls for a piggy back run in the yard to pacify them when they learn they can't come with me on my run, get everyone to the breakfast table, try to make Lucy eat her eggs before her banana bread and police Annie so she doesn't eat the entire basket of oranges, clean the house while arbitrating Lego play, explain to Peter that I can't help him set up a tightrope for his Lego car right now, join Mom in the hall to deal with a lying episode, extract Annie from the older kids when she gets fussy and set her up playing in the living room while I vacuum downstairs, answer her when she asks which cup goes next on her tower, get everyone fed again, tuck everyone in for a nap or quiet time, convince Peter that Lucy doesn't need a container of water for her nose bleed, convince Lucy that her nose is not bleeding anymore and there is no emergency, answer Lucy when she yells down the stairs to see if she can get up, tell the kids they can get up, arbitrate and answer questions as necessary, help Peter deal with his disappointment when he is banned from Legos after wrecking Lucy's creation, get dinner on the table while Mom reads to the kids, feed Annie her soup while eating my own, laugh with the kids while we eat pear slices with homemade chocolate and caramel sauce spooned on top, do the dishes with Dad while Mom bathes the girls, answer Peter's bellows from the shower by telling him where his towel is and that he will have to run upstairs to get his pajamas, join everyone in the living room for end of the day devotions, grease up the chests and feet of the three coughing children with a little menthol rub while they wiggle and laugh hilariously at the tickle.
And then, it is quiet. Lucy and Annie both want to sit in my lap, so we sprawl on the couch, damp heads resting in the crook of my neck. They are quiet while Dad reads the Word. When it is time to pray, I fold my left hand with Lucy's right and my right hand with Annie's left. They settle, even livewire Annie, and we pray. Annie is thankful for building a tower with cups; Lucy is thankful for playing with Legos; Peter is thankful for dessert. I am thankful for many things, especially this fleeting moment with my dear ones.
The prayer is over; Annie is proclaiming her desire for a drink and what color of cup she wants; suddenly everyone else wants a drink too. Their hair has dried after their bath, and Annie's hair rises like a lion's mane, matching her rising voice. The moment has passed, so I treasure it away and look for what this moment has in store.
And then, it is quiet. Lucy and Annie both want to sit in my lap, so we sprawl on the couch, damp heads resting in the crook of my neck. They are quiet while Dad reads the Word. When it is time to pray, I fold my left hand with Lucy's right and my right hand with Annie's left. They settle, even livewire Annie, and we pray. Annie is thankful for building a tower with cups; Lucy is thankful for playing with Legos; Peter is thankful for dessert. I am thankful for many things, especially this fleeting moment with my dear ones.
The prayer is over; Annie is proclaiming her desire for a drink and what color of cup she wants; suddenly everyone else wants a drink too. Their hair has dried after their bath, and Annie's hair rises like a lion's mane, matching her rising voice. The moment has passed, so I treasure it away and look for what this moment has in store.
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