The Last To Know

            I am the last to know.  So often the obvious escapes me.

            Reading a book by Jan Johnson, an author I discovered quite by accident—one of her titles was advertised as a free Kindle book—led to reading another one of her books because it was available for free check-out to Amazon Prime members.  Invitation to the Jesus Life:  Experiments in Christlikeness and When the Soul Listens:  Finding Rest and Direction in Contemplative Prayer describe my interior life, especially the gradual growth of the past four years.  I have to smile:  God has led me into the heart of spiritual disciplines without me knowing it   

If I’m bragging on anyone, it is on God.  I guess he likes to lead us right into experiencing him even if we don’t recognize his methods.

            I believe it started with a simple decision made back in my Colby, Kansas apartment after I left my husband of six years in January 2008.  I was tired of secrets and lies, tired of not being true to myself.  I didn’t even know what I liked let alone what I believed.  I started where I was and worked on what resonated with me.  At the time, it was recovery literature, in which I discovered the depths of my co-dependency.  Living alone for the first time in decades, I also discovered simple preferences:  lots of lights on, blankets and hot tea to ward off the chill of winter evenings, soft music in the background when I was lonely.

            I started to pay attention to my heart’s desires.  They told me to move to Whidbey Island.  An impossible dream became a reality.  Within six months I had resigned my secure job and left Kansas to live in a cabin in the woods.  I never would have figured that the realization of my writing dreams (i.e., the freedom to write) would involve sharing Mom’s care with my youngest brother and becoming solvent because of my sister. 

            But God had other soul-opening avenues for me along the way, too:  Whidbey Presbyterian Church, a wonderful Stephen Minister who has become a cherished friend, The Enchanted Flute Choir, and private flute lessons, to name a few.

            Meanwhile, in the quiet lifestyle and relative freedom of my early retirement, God continued his mystical soul work.  I found a bubbling spring of creativity that spilled over on a daily basis, but it was not what I expected.  I had planned to research and write about my great-grandmother, perhaps some sort of historical fiction based on her diaries during the years she taught in rural Montana.  What I ended up doing was chronicling my new life on Whidbey Island.  In that writing, I became more attuned to hearing God in the present moment.  He is the one who releases creativity and lets me enjoy words, experience the surprising flow between thought and keyboard, inhabit the current sentence.   I learned to listen to His soft sweeps of inspiration—often in the form of a single opening sentence—and hurry to my keyboard to follow the words from beginning to end:  writing that feels timeless and free.

            Did I know, really know, that I was learning to pay attention to God?  And better, that I was learning to dialogue with God?  No.

            Prayer has always a problem for me.  I’ve never felt comfortable with demanding things (or even requesting them) from God.  I interpreted that discomfort as a lack of faith.   Admittedly, I am still clueless about how God uses prayer to actually make a difference in our own hearts and the lives of others.  What I do know is that somehow he has changed my prayerlessness into prayerfulness:   spending time with him, giving myself up to him, praying within the routines of the day for whomever he brings to mind.

            Perhaps it is in the heat of suffering and climate of contemplative prayer that he forges compassion.  Sometimes I get glimpses of truth about other people that fill me with sorrow/ longing/joy—and the desire to be an instrument of his love.  “Allow me to bless someone today” is my heart cry, right along with “Let me receive your blessing as well.”

            Two nights ago, it was early morning insomnia and a nudge from God that drove me to my keyboard at three in the morning to record that first sentence—“I am the last to know”--and keep writing.   Today, it is the quiet of Christmas Sunday afternoon that invites me to rein in those early morning ramblings into readable form.

What to do with these words?  Post them, of course.

Confessions

Part One

            I’ve been doing stuff I shouldn’t.

            For instance, just now Mom asked me where her sister Portia lives, and I answered truthfully:  “She died [over ten years ago].”

            On the other hand, I lie copiously by way of omission.  Mom knows my brother John is sick by his cough and his froggy voice, but I’m not about to tell her he has pneumonia.  Nor did I divulge that my “errands” yesterday involved taking him to his doctor’s appointment and over to the hospital for chest X-rays.

            I did tell the truth about going to choir practice last night, though.

Part Two

            I’ve been doing stuff I shouldn’t.

            For instance, I carried John’s laundry basket—loaded with clean laundry— over to his house and up his stairs.  I also dragged one of the empty trash cans back from the road since Mom’s golf cart has a flat tire, my car trunk won’t hold a trash can, and I didn’t feel like trying to start John’s diesel-powered, ancient Mercedes in this cold weather.

            On the other hand, I have not even tried to take Mom’s wheelchair out of my car trunk.  Nor have I changed the kitty litter for John’s indoor cats.

            Evidently my sins of commission carry more weight than my sins of omission, because my back is killing me, but my conscience isn’t.

           

For the Birds!

            “Acrostic puzzles are for the birds!”

            Now, that is a surprising pronouncement from the woman who absolutely loves acrostic puzzles and works them by the hour.  Wednesday afternoon Mom complained about the very process--filling in the letters from the answers--that are the hallmark of acrostics.  The other night she noticed with great glee that the answer key had not only a word list but also a quotation.  (The quotation is the final result of solving the puzzle.)

            Fortunately, the moment passed, and she got right back to filling in the blanks.           

Showing Up

            It never ceases to amaze me when God shows up.

            Today God showed up when I sat down to write the Stephen Ministry column for our church newsletter.  I had an idea for what I planned to write, but as soon as I typed the first sentence, a brand new avenue opened up.  The Holy Spirit’s ideas are undoubtedly better than my own, so I followed the trail.  I trust that the result, which involved way more of God’s Word than my words, will be something someone needs.

            Yesterday God showed up when I checked my email and discovered that asking permission to share a slice of three friends’ lives in my Random Reflections column (again, for our church newsletter) blessed them.  Their kind words blessed me, too.

            God shows up all the time:  as I type at the computer, practice my flute, drive down the highway, or walk up the driveway.  His appearances come in the form of new ideas and turns of phrase, in the joy of playing music, in the mountain and water views, and in the tall firs that reach toward the sun. 

He’s even caught my attention with slimy slugs.

           

December 6: Taking Action

            Late yesterday afternoon I read Dana’s most recent blog, “Someday.” (http://reflectionsfromholland.blogspot.com/2011/12/someday.html?spref=fb)  It tugged at this mother’s heart and inspired action.  I was doing Google searches and reading articles about Down syndrome and temper tantrums, hoping for some shining bit of insight that would be of help.  The reading reinforced what I knew already:  my daughter is a remarkable mother.

            The phone rang.  It was Joseph, a very upset Joseph.  He moved to another apartment complex at the end of November, hoping to escape the smell of cigarette smoke and the din of traffic.  He escaped neither.  Fortunately, my Stephen Minister training kicked in, and I listened to his feelings, reflecting back what I heard:  “You must be feeling very frustrated.”  Then, gradually, we moved on to solutions—what he can do and what is beyond his control.  I offered to research air purifiers for him.

            While I was still on the phone with Joseph, Mom came in the house with a huge armload of clothes from John’s house, mostly socks. 

“Dirty laundry?” I asked. 

“No, it’s something else.  You will have to look through this with me.” 

            After a bit, I got off the phone with Joseph and walked back to the living room to inspect the pile of clothing Mom had already forgotten about.  My mistake was picking up a sock to smell it—never a good way to determine if socks are clean. 

            I lugged the load back to the washing machine.  As I dropped individual pieces in, I gradually realized that every single item had at least one hole or tear in it.  The light dawned:  Mom had been poking around in John’s basement and found a rag bag of items John had not gotten around to tossing yet.  (In his defense, until very recently it was almost impossible to get rid of anything because Mom would nab what looked remotely salvageable from the trash cans.)  With that realization, I took out a 13-gallon trash bag and loaded it with all of the worn socks and ripped shirts.

            Later in the evening, after a fruitful flute choir practice in Oak Harbor, I resumed Google searches.  Within a couple hours, I had ordered an air purifier for Joseph and sent what I hope is an encouraging email to Dana.  It felt good to take some action.  Today I will transfer the bag of old socks and shirts from its hiding spot beside my bed to the trash can where it belongs.