you are held....

As I wandered the country roads this summer, I searched for bees.I had heard that honey bees are suffering a steep decline that has scientists very worried.My mind also went back to a shameful pastime that my young friends and I engaged in on summer afternoons on Long Island: catching bees in jars of dirt.One must ask why? Because it was fun to turn the jar over and watch the poor little amber bodies struggle  laboriously through the dirt to get to the top of the jar.We would then turn it over to watch them climb upwards again.Eventually, we let them go because we weren't really cruel children.How they fared with dirt on their wings or how long it took to clean themselves off was none of our concern.

I'm sorry!!!!

Each morning of this mountain summer, I would go up the steep hill to a screened tent that my husband set up for me to write in my journal and pray.On August 30th I was given this thought : "The sky above holds you, the earth below holds you, my eternal Love holds you. Look for the signs of this miracle in your life.You are held."

But, I also received strict instruction about judging others.I heard:  " Judgment clouds seeing.You become wrapped up in the rationale for your judging and won't notice the clover or the bumble bee which are infinitely more important.Don't cloud your mind, it shackles your spirit from soaring".

Ah, so what does all this mean?I am still sorting it out.I will leave it to you to ponder but I know this:
the time that I spend in my garden watching dragonflies, enjoying their transparent wings edged in black and their green eyes in a black head is nourishing.They are delicate beyond words and yet, they fly and soar like my soul is to do.The purple clover that always shows up in the summer to feed the bumble bees who also appear, are an anchor in my wanderings. Signs.

...whatever is lovely...

The evolution of the story goes on, that terrible story.Not only was the young woman sexually assaulted but he took pictures and sent them to his swim team buddies.How much more can we take of this degrading and shameful story ?I am ashamed to be an American after this.Ashamed to be a human being.When the heroes on bikes who stopped the assault are Swedes in our country for an education, I am ashamed, but glad there are at least heroes.Touching beyond belief is the victim's drawing of two bicycles that hangs over her  bed to reassure her that there is good in this world.

Why am I drawn to this story and explore each new twist?To hate the perpetrator even more?To despise the judge and the father of the felon?

And then today.More horror committed by an American citizen.And so with the internet, we are drawn into these seemingly endless tragedies.

While in prayer yesterday,  I was given direction that I want to share with anyone who feels overwhelmed as I do.If it shifts perspective as it has for me, I am heartened.This is what I heard:

  "Fear nothing.What can damage your soul if you truly love Me ?If I am your focus and your All.All good comes from Me.What have you to fear?See the good, focus on the good; put the evil that men do out of your mind.Make your mind a playground, a garden for butterflies, moonbeams, dancing dragonflies, furrowed rows of flowers. There will be smooth rocks for sitting with a great fountain in the middle with goodness(Godness) pouring out.This garden will then be a place of refreshment for many.Visit this garden that we have created, often.".

"...Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable-if anything is excellent or praiseworthy-think about such things."Phillipians 4:8.

I have a choice.

the Russian hut

In my hands is an old postcard that I bought on e-bay.It arrived in an envelope from Latvia .I hold it and wonder.It has ink stains, a bare spot and wrinkled edges.Who in Latvia was careless with an ink pen ?How old must it be?Is this Russian hut a real place or an artist's imagining? I wish I knew the artist so I could look for other works.Nothing on the back of the card gives away who painted this scene that captivates me so.

I hear the owner tell the story of this poor insignificant place.:

 "The terrible war is over and  my dreaming of this place saved me.Staggering across the soft black earth, I head for the open door.It is all so familiar, this white washed thatched hut, this spare,small place like a lodestar tucked in my memory. The hollyhocks look like tall sentinels with blood red hearts attached.I watched the swaying weeping willow when I first crested the hill.Willow weep for me, I have missed you so.To find you still here brings tears cascading down my cheeks.Still here !

The old fence that carried the stunning blue morning glory vine is leaning a bit but still standing.Morning glories, did you hold it up for me? How many times did I collect the small black seeds that looked like tiny pieces of coal and put them up for next year.I had to be sure to get out there ahead of the birds.The flowers themselves when unopened were twisted up like tight little hands. You would never guess the startling sky blue color that would appear when they opened..

The small window to the right of the door is where the old blue wooden desk was placed.Uneven but very long, there was room for all the spreading out needed.It is that spot that loomed in my mind while I was gone, the place of writing stories.Of digging around the roots of my life to find what is real, true and worthy.Who are you to think that you can write? I, you and I, have a story, our story, that no one else can write and if it is true and real it will be worthy.

When you love the very idea of that desk, those black medium point pens, those tumbling words:when the crinkle of the paper as you open a Goodwill journal, with a note from the giver tucked in the back, causes excitement in your soul, you are a writer.

"Why should we use our creative power?Because there is nothing that makes people so generous, joyful, lively, bold and compassionate...because the best way to know Truth and Beauty is to try to express it.And what is the purpose of existence, Here or Yonder, but to discover truth and beauty and to express it."
Brenda Ueland.

Writing class, journaling and Maddie.

The next writing class starts up again in two days and as always, it's a mystery who will come; how many writers can there be in a church community ? I know of one definite from the last class.I describe her as the heart of our group because her honest, searing writing  gave us all permission to risk.She is young compared to most of us but she brings wisdom, enthusiasm and a big heart.She was called to that room.

The setting will be the same, a large room with floor to ceiling windows, lots of light and a round table where I will set up some small objects.While holding an ordinary object or a copy of a piece of art we can glance out at the calming scene of swaying Georgia pines.The room is perfect for what we do.It feels like church even when we are just writing about sons, gardens or the past.

The past is a vast wild field of plants and flowers disguised as memories strewn about in disarray.They have great power over us, these memories Writing has helped me to reassess this possible minefield.

Just yesterday, I was writing a story triggered by my Mother and Son Willow figure that will be one of the objects offered as inspiration for a story.My writing had to do with a drunk who sat next to me on a flight home from the Baltic.I related how offended and angry I was to have to sit by this drunk when I had had to put up with them in my family for my all growing years.Then, I had vowed that my life would be different and it is.Suddenly, I felt a rush of gratitude for this life of healthy, sober, faith filled living that I have taken for granted always.It is a great gift and without my pen, I would never realized it.

New members may look at the objects and wonder why they came to this class and what in the world  they will write.They won't know that a plain wooden bowl brought memories of a deeply loved Grandma and stirred thoughts of  a time of brokenness when written about last time.Or that a turkey feather released tears of missing from a bereaved cat lover.Last time, there were many tears at the first class and a dear friend said:"Is it going to be like this for 8 weeks?" And I thought, only if we have courage.

I don't know who or what encouraged me to start writing and keeping a journal.I would like to give credit.Next to me is last year's journal open to a page with a few dried weeds and a long black strand of hair.It is from an Easter day when I was privileged to see what the world looks like to the eyes of a two year old.This child is my Maddie girl who was sitting in the shade with her beautiful hair in a bun on her head.This world was greenly new to her black eyes, fresh as Eden.The breeze touched her cheek and she laughed.She watched with wonder as the leaves on the tall oak blew gently around on their stems.With delight, she pick little weeds and held, twirled, and sniffed, letting herself be enchanted.She took me with her on this unforgettable trip.After she left, I went out and scooped up the little handful of weeds and there winding in and out was one strand of her hair.Where would you keep such a treasure?It is taped on a page in my journal, marked, so anytime I need a memory of Maddie or Spring, it is there.

the story that never ends...

 The other day I was thinking of the Nativity scene for some reason and I got a bit misty.What is it about that story that never fails to enchant even this older, weary heart? There were efforts again this year to remove the creches from City Hall lawns.This year saw the Festivus tree with beer cans go up in Florida and as a new twist, satanists in Oklahoma demanded equal time for a statue of Satan.. They won and I guess it went up.Shudder.As Steve Martin sings,:"Atheists don't have songs", so I don't know what happened around that display.

  I can see her now in her small clean room with a bed by the window. My father's picture is on all wooden stand.next to her.Her grey hair is short and curly and even in her eighties, her face is open like a child's. She is propped up in a chair with a pillow behind her back, waiting.A book lays in her lap and she has come to a place of contentment in the bright, bustling environment of a nursing home.

 My mother read books and prayed the rosary faithfully.She prayed two each day,one for for my sister and one for my husband to stop smoking.She had smoked and knew the damage, the frightening inability to get enough air, so she prayed.My husband tried hypnosis, self-talk and so on, to break a habit acquired at 13 years.All failed until that one day, 20 years ago, when he just quit.Period.

 If every Nativity scene is destroyed, every written tale of the Birth burned, every mention of it banned as hate speech , still it will exist because there is a hole in each human heart that is bare, hollow without this story.

While my mother sat in that chair, she would get very anxious.She was waiting for the nurse to come with her breathing treatment.It seems that it was timed and the medicine always came after her asthma started up again.She would feel panic rising and the only thing that helped was this: a pencil sketch that my son, at age 12, had made for her.It was drawn on a sheet of notebook paper and took up the whole page, what with the people, cows, sheep, angels, baby and a star. So many times she told me that gazing at that scene, which loving hands had made, calmed her when nothing else would.
 

an encounter that stays with me....

  Australia 2012.I never  thought I would travel this far to a place that I always yearned to visit.We were here for my son's wedding to the love of his life,Crystal Kelehear, and my memories are endless.The birds called bell birds that swarm in colonies and do sound like chimes but are creepy in one aspect, I never could spot one.They were all around in the tree right by the road and though noisy, they were  invisible.

 We were staying at the family farm about four hours from Sydney and miles from a town.The acres were thousands and mountains were everywhere.The crows cry like babies, the kookaburra bird laughs with abandon and instead of squirrels, 3 foot lace monitor lizards come at you from the leaf strewn under story.I loved it.If I never go back, I will feel deprived.

 The day before the wedding was a Sunday and Crystal's kind sister found a Catholic Church in the next town but there was no one to drive me.The most likely volunteer would have been a son who had food poisoning and had been vomiting for two days. I hadn't the nerve to drive myself on the wrong side of the road in an unfamiliar country, so I stayed home, not happy.Crystal's father noticed.

 I had watched Craig, who is a thin , rangy man with a grey beard in his mid 60s , tending sick cows, digging trenches to keep river water flowing to the house and a million other necessary chores and yet on the morning of the wedding he said this:"I know you missed church, so I thought we would have it up on the hill if you wish."What a generous offer in the midst of all that had to be done.I said yes.

After donning straw hats against the brilliant Australian sun, we hiked up the long driveway to the top of a  hill.We sat in the shade of the leafy tree seen above.At our feet was a small monument to a much loved relative who is buried there.This spot looks out over a rolling pasture on to the mountains.We talked of his love for that person and his parents.I told of losing my sister and having dreamed that she and my mother had been reunited in heaven and were happy.It was an emotional time for us and it was church in a most unexpected way.I recall thinking that here we were, two displaced Celts,  (both ancestors emigrated from Ireland) looking out over this beautiful plain.I will forget many church services but not this one on the hill.

  The day before we left to come home, I wrote Craig a note thanking him for his kindness.Today's scripture was part of that note::

                                            "The Lord is your guard and your shade;
                                                at your right hand he stands.
                                              By day the sun will not smite you
                                               nor the moon in the night."Psalm  121

I hope that he has felt the Lord's shade in the many days since.

Joy....

When I worked for BellSouth Mobility and we were gearing up for the Atlanta Olympics, it seemed that there would be no meaningful life after 1996.What could be more exciting than the world coming to our city? And here we are twenty years later, and there is life on this cold , sunny, blustery day.I am in a house by the river; the trees are bare and the stillness of the house is a gift.It seems a day for reflection.

The New Year coincides with the latest 54 day rosary novena that I am praying through; this time my intention surprised me.I prayed for joy.It seemed that at this time of year, joy was as elusive as a dry day.So much loss by those around me.I claim contentment but joy is of a different order.

When I pray the rosary, I have been led to pray for the desires of my heart.Many times these prayers are for family members, the suffering, the estranged.But when I pray for myself, I see immediate results.Kind friends have suggested that I write a book but that seems so far away in the energy needed but I did pray for what to do with the excitement I feel when I put  pen to paper.Within days, a secret longing blossomed  into a path.Last Fall, I facilitated a writing class.As I stood at the doorway of the classroom, I struggled with what to do if no one showed.But, 7 to 8 faithful writers showed up every Friday and the room was electric, sparks of delight pinging off the windows.A new group will form in February.

I do not teach writing.I am not qualified, but I create a safe space for new writers to share their hearts.Only positive feedback is allowed and encouragement is the milieu in which we write.If the participants leave class wanting to write as a joyous hobby, then the goal has been reached.Where that will lead them is limitless.One lady was going to Florida to visit her Mother for Christmas and was going to write her Mother's life as a gift to her.

We are only a few days into 2016, and yet I feel a stirring of gladness.It is small, like a barely heard hum, but it is there.Is it possible that by identifying the lack of joy and pointing my heart in its direction, the river of gold that it is, turns ?

What are the desires of your heart?Can you name them?Are you willing to turn your heart towards the river of golden Light and let it take you where you want to go?Our Father, who art in heaven...Hail Mary, full of grace...