The Sun Rises against the Darkness of LIfe..

― “And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. 
That’s what this storm’s all about.” 

Haruki Murakami

Photo taken on the beach the morning of reflection

I sat on the beach watching the sun rise up and shine through the darkness.

Waves were crashing on the beach and the wind was blowing through my hair.

I looked into the wonder of the universe--feeling very connected but very small-all at the same time.

I love to watch the sky---love how the sun peaks up over the darkness of time--and how the tiniest light--just a tiny ray can illuminate even the darkest sky.  

It reminds me of hope--hope that even in the darkest of worlds where humanity seems to be at war with each other and Mother Earth seems to be fed the hell up with all of us-hope that the sun will come up again.

I don't know about all us people--running around--ignoring each other as we stare into our little hand held entertainment device and believe me--i'm just as guilty of that as the next person.

I don't know when we seemed to stop caring for each other.

Leaders in tweeting wars-saying horrific things that that fill the universe with division and
segregation, fill our world with more hate than love, fill our world  with fear instead of promoting courage.
I don't know about all of us--becoming so desensitized to mass killings and hurt-we tune in to commercials because of the pain involved with looking who we are becoming is too much to take in--
better to be happy greeting card commercial than to examine the complexity of
real life that provokes men and women to kill each other in large quantities for apparently no real reason. 

I'll probably never understand what leads people down the road to destruction.
But
I am a living witness
to the fact
that somehow I made it though a few really severe storms
filled with
darkness and sadness and despair.
I've fallen to me knees
breath knocked out of me
begging that something bigger than myself
would take me out of the severe pain I was living in-
but it did not happen--I had to live through it.

Storms raged
winds blew
my heart
broke and crumbled into millions of tiny little pieces
and while I'm glued together
my heart will never be the same
ever again.
But somehow
someway
during the darkest night of my soul,
that which is greater than myself
picked me up
pulled me up
lifted me up and
carried me
when I could not rise on my on.

I sat on that little beach
with God's wind blowing
waves crashing
and
I realized
that
in my own life
during the bleakest of time
The wind of the HOLY
continued to lift me up
in ways I cannot explain.

I don't know how I got to the other side of
fear and hurt and darkness or if I really am...
I don't know how I ever began to smile again
I don't know when my laugh began to rise from my broken heart again
but it has
and
JOY resides in me--much to my surprise!

I'm not the same
will never be the same
after wading through all this darkness
but I'm here...
here and feeling the sun against my face
and
I am most thankful for a moment
of reflection.
...
Survival

....................

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What kind of shoes do you live in?

"A PAIR OF SHOES CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE"

-CINDERELLA-

For too long in my life, I think I've settled on the shoes other people pick out for me. 

I've worn those bought by other people and tried to live up to their image.

I've worried people won't like what I'm wearing or will judge me because they don't like my shoes.

I've fretted for God only knows too much of my life about how my parents will feel about me in my shoes, about what my husband thinks, about whether I'd embarrass my children, or even about whether someone would see my shoes and comment..

and never ever picked out a pair for myself....

Shoes---they can change our life.

When I first went to seminary, the struggles of having been raised as a women in a faith tradition that didn't allow women to speak from behind a pulpit were very intense. During my first homiletics class, the day before I was to preach my first sermon, I thought I would die internally.  I kept telling myself "I can't".

I went to Dr. LP Jones and said, "I simply can't do this".   

He smiled and said, "I understand the voices in your head.  They are old tapes, it is time for you to step into the shoes God has for you and cast the proverbial demons from your past to another place."

I went out and bought a pair of simple black shoes that I called my "preaching shoes".

And the next day, 

I stepped into them with shaking feet.

I drove myself to the seminary 

and yes I was trembling

but 

I marched myself up to the pulpit,

laid my written manuscript on the pulpit 

and 

I preached--was it pretty---questionable

did I stop shaking the whole time

probably not

but

the shoes made all the difference because I had bought them for myself.

That should have been my lesson but it wasn't enough

I continue to find myself 

wearing the shoes other people choose for me

calm and comfortable

that 

keep everything a bit flat.

Maybe

just

maybe

i need to take a lesson once again from LP jones about life...

step into the shoes I'm called to

....

funny thing is

now when I preach

I always preach and lead worship in sock feet

it is sacred ground for me because I don't get to do it often

and

i honor those moments by keeping myself grounded with feet on the floor.

Tomorrow

I am running a half-marathon--well I'm going to do everything in my power to

finish the half-marathon---and once I check that off my bucket list, 

I will never run again--those running shoes will have served their purpose.

and

for

Today

...

today

I remind myself

that life is too short

to short change the shoes 

I 

choose to wear.

I'm worth it.

i need to stop caring what other people think about my shoes and about my own uniqueness...

have a good day 

and

buy yourself a pair of shoes...

your worth it too.

The radical rambler....

Oh the places they are going---and my love follows.

“The amount that she loved 
us was beyond her reach. 
It could not be quantified or contained.
 It was the ten thousand named things in the Tao Te Ching’s universe and then ten thousand more.
 Her love was full-throated and all-encompassing and unadorned.

 Every day she blew through her entire reserve.” 

― Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

I don't think anyone can really quantify the depths of love a mother feels for her children.  Hell, it surprises me all the time.  I once heard it said, a mother can only be as happy as her saddest child.  I think there are parts of that statement that may be true.  
From the moment, they were placed in my arms after horrific C-section deliveries,  love---full-hearted love is all I've ever felt for them--even on the baddest of bad days.
Off color Girl with her woody woodpecker laugh and off color boy who stripped the moment he got home to his boxers because he was always hot (mainly because he could never sit still).
What joy my relationship with them has given me? What wonder I have experienced because of their eyes?
Flowers and shells and worms and trees
and
now 
each is out living their own little life in their own little space
and
I 
I stand and look out to the horizon
and
whisper a prayer
for the 
wonder of the journey of motherhood
-how blessed am I-

so fly high little birds-fly high
I will always love you 
all day long
every day
to the moon and back.

happy ramblings....
the rambler

it rises....

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise
Maya Angelou

The sun rises every day--somewhere

rises above the horizon, passes the moon

who says good morning, 

good night says the sun

and

moves into place

providing light

for the world.

I watch it with yearning

wondering how it fathoms the energy every morning,

rain, or shine or snow or late night--

to move on up,

put forth it's glow and

radiate into the world.

I for one

envy that kind of constant rhythm

that kind of glow

that kind of knowing that

rising will take place

...

it takes so much

and

from where it comes

i don't know

to rise up every day...

move out

share my light

when all i feel inside is a mix of

despair and hopelessness

that wrestles with

my idealistic

belief that hope always floats up and

love always wins....

and whether it does--

depends on the time of day and

which part of me is winning the

on going wrestling match between

hope and hopelessness...

There are days

unlike the sun

that

i'd rather pull the covering over me

hold the light in for myself

and

hide...

but

like

the sun

I rise

to the

wonder of a new

day

and

put my foot out in faith

and

let

something

IT

faith

grace

rise up

and hold me up....

and like the sun

that amazes

me..

some days

as I put

my weary soul to rest...

I look back

do

my inventory

and

think

wow...

still I rise.....

Good night moon...

see you in the morning...

and close my eyes to another day....having risen to meet the moon.

Making Meaning....Live the Dash well....

“Maybe we are all broken pieces from God, 

trying to become whole once more.” ― Urbanky Aurel Petru

It has been awhile since I've written...

I guess 

if I am honest,

the words have been stuck

stuck inside

swirling around

bouncing off

my insides like they were trapped inside

a tin can 

pricking me

words

without 

meaning

just words

holding me together

thinking

wondering

pondering

and 

trying to

dig meaning 

from the fragments of my whole.

Just words

and 

so 

here I go

radical rambler I am

beginning to trust 

that my words

need a home

....

and

..

so

the

.

rambling

my rambling

my thinking and digging and searching 

for meaning

begins

to pour out of my fast typing fingers again

I never know where it will lead

what will 

be birthed as I call it

but

...

i will trust

..

that my 

words 

have meaning

if not just for me

my insides

are all bruised

from the bombardment of

thoughts and

formations

and 

thinking

......

A former colleague who I considered a friend

passed away last month

he was much younger (about 10 years or so) than me

his children are young

beautiful girls that made his face and heart sing and dance when he spoke of them

...

I did not see him often

but

I listened on the day he passed away

to 

all the lives he touched

in all kinds of ways and I was touched by the many ways he made life better for so many people

He was kind

warm

open

...

he hugged

everyone he met

touched them

took them up into his arms

and

held them

made them (me)

feel like I was the most important

person in the world

and that I was his best friend

every single time I met him...

seems he did that for everyone.

He was a young stud when I first met him

and

me with two young babies and a husband

would listen to his adventures 

and

just laugh as 

he entertained me

with his escapades of bachelor life.

....

He taught me how to work crosswords and told me

about how his dad taught him...

I'd work the daily New York Times in pencil...

and

when I'd done all I could 

he'd sit down with a pen--do what I could not do--really quickly

and

fix all my wrong answers.

he bought me diet mountain dew when I was having a bad night

and

he made me laugh...

Later in life as he met his wife and had his girls...

every time I met him

he asked 

about my family by name

and

he smiled

smiled the minute he saw me

and

opened his arms to one of those amazing hugs.

.....

We celebrated his life last week

on a day that 

was hard for me

.....

And He made me laugh again

with stories of his life

the way he collected weird peoples names

and

how he loved to scare people

He reminded me that

we offer our gifts to the world

and 

I listened as 

his boss spoke of 

his calm spirit and his dedication to doing a good job.

....

He loved and he lived well and I sat with 30 people who worked with him and

their stories were rich..

and

I ponder...about that dash--

the 

dash

between

when we are born

and

when we die.

Life It really is about all that stuff that happens in between

that little dash.

...

If at the end of my time

I hope my dash

has meaning

that I've lived 

well

that I've loved

that

I've inspired

.....

May we all

live life 

deeply and fully

like

my friend....

and

may

all the pieces of our lives

broken 

as they seem sometimes

come

together into a 

beautiful 

picture 

that

provide

light

and

color

and

laughter

and

love

...

yes

most of all love

...

to all we meet.

The dash is short

may we live it well

said

the radical rambler on 

this early Saturday morning.

May it be so...

Be safe on this snowy day...

the radical rambler.

A Little Love and Tenderness......

“It was odd, (Tessa thought), what brought out tenderness in people.” 
― Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Angel

She sat there in her protective shell like exterior---softness all underneath that she only allows just a few to catch a glimmer of from time to time

and

she told me

a tale

her tale

of 

captured tenderness

and

I welled up

choked up

sat there all caught up in the wonder of our connected lives

and

now 

I smile---at the depth of us humans who sometimes

somehow 

channel our love

our gentleness

our tenderness if you will

into 

tiny little slivers of God's love.....

Her grandmother

old and tired

and

all ready for both her birthday--around 90

and 

her return day--her return to love----

....

She found herself 

the victim of a stroke

but 

yet

all wrapped up in that body that would not work any more

was a woman of strength

and 

stubbornness.

Granddaughter tells me of her grandmothers birthday...

about how she wasn't allowed to have that 

Pepsi

but she insisted that she could swallow

and

about a nurse

who found out 

her grandmother loved cantaloupe began the preparations for the

last supper of sorts

 they stood in the sacredness of time

one last time

all bound up in their love for each other

and while

I never met the grandmother

I have a vision that the 

young woman I starred out 

was the new embodiment of her namesake

around hospital bed

among iv and the pink fluffy blankent

stood two women

ages apart

but

love bound through time

stood

for a sacred meal of sort

a communion of the Holy Kind

the fizz of a cold Pepsi over ice

and

the smell

of fruit drifting in the air

The priest of sort--priestess---nurse as I see her

went to the 

lunchbox 

and

shared 

from her bowl

slivers of orange cool crispness

and

in a prayerful manner

smushed up the sacredness of fruit of the earth

swirled it around, mixed it in a pray-like way---birthday treat for her last birthday ever---

I imagine the Tupperware and fork----sacred vessels ---

hands mixing and crushing

and

see the gentleness of a young nurse

a priestess of healing and giver of

the sacraments---

intimate moment shared

granddaughter rubbing on arms and staring into eyes

and

lifting up a fizzing communion of Pepsi

while

the 

tender nurse moves over

no words said

only 

love drifting around the bed

around the two women-

separated by generations

but 

held together by name and love and heart

.....

Love

moved through the air

and

in the moment

of 

silent 

communion

.....

Tender mercy and kindness 

and

love of all kinds

swirled

around 

the

bed of a dying woman about to enter freedom once again

.....

sacred ceremony

last supper

communion with and for saints

all

in a

tiny little sliver of

time

....

Love

that knows

no 

beginning

and 

no end

only

hearts

that 

are connected forever

......

Thankful for the sharing of the story

for the tenderness of a priestess nurse

and

for the 

wonder of a granddaughter

with great memories

of one last sacred communion.

May the Mystery

wrap around 

my friend

and

bless 

the little 

nurse 

who 

cared enough

to 

be the bearer of sacred smushed up orange fruit 

served with

a 

heart filled with 

tenderness

.............

thankful 

for 

being the receiver of this story

and

for being given permission

to share

May your grandmothers

strength

and

stubbornness

live on in you.

and 

may all of us

dare 

to 

live

out

moments of tenderness

as they come

blessings...

the radical rambler.....