A New St. Francis?

The Prayer of St. Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born of Eternal Life.

Amen

Attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, in the 13th century.

Yesterday, the Catholic Church announced the selection of a new pope, the Argentinian Cardinal, Jorge Mario Bergoglio, forever onward referred to as Pope Francis I.

Regardless of my personal feelings toward the scandal plagued, culturally conservative Church, I find myself whole-heartedly hopeful, and satisfied with the Cardinals' selection.  Honestly, who wouldn't?

By all accounts, Cardinal Bergoglio distinguished himself as an outwardly humble and devoutly, holy man; a champion of the sick and poor he lived amongst. His first request, as the head of the world's 1.2 billion Catholics, was for a blessing from his expanded flock.

It disappoints me to hear disaffected Catholics, and others denigrate this simple man with snarky comments, and negative commentary.  Sadly, many can't see beyond their own pain, or cultural agenda.

What harm is there in having an open heart, and mind? What harm will come from praying that God will bless and guide a humble servant, charged with shining His light upon a world grown dim?  What does it matter if there are cracks in the foundation, as long as the beacon shines forth from the top of the tower, guiding its ships to safe harbor?  Cracks can be repaired.  

Only God knows what's in a man's heart (I seem to remember quoting that before). Cardinal Bergoglio appears to be a right, and just man.  What possible good can come from mocking him?

This Pope chose the name Francis.  God willing he will leave footprints in the sand, next to those of the saints of the same name, for a new generation of men to humbly follow.

My Board of Grace

"The board itself doesn't impact reality; what changes your life is the process of creating . . . "  Martha Beck

Vision Board (page one)

Once upon a time, I reluctantly set out to complete what I believed to be a cheesy little arts & crafts project, and wound up (much to my delight), on a spiritual journey.

As a one-little-word traveler, I was prompted to create a vision board - a personal collection of representative words and images, of things or concepts, that I'd like to welcome into my life. In theory, a vision board is a poor man's Field of Dreams . . . if you build it, he will come!

I trekked to the book store, grabbed a handful of magazines (the one's with the most fun photos I could find), and headed home to cut and paste!

At some point, it occurred to me that I paid a ridiculous amount of money for magazines I was going to destroy.  I hoped the end result was worth it.

Back on task, I started through the pages, looking for images that spoke to me (made me ooh! or ah!).  Nothing!  Struggling, I reread the directions, followed the suggested links, and tried again.

This time, to my surprise, I finished with a substantial collection of words, images and phrases. I spread them out, and planned how I'd arrange them on paper. I began trimming my treasures to fit the page, but opted to tear them to fit instead.  Go figure!

Vision Board (page 2)

Once finished, I was pleased with myself, but still had a hard time seeing anything more than two fairly decent scrapbook pages.  Humph . . . I must have missed something. I photographed them, and filed them away in my scrapbook. Done!

Two weeks later while lying in bed, I had an epiphany!  The ragged (torn, not cut) words, phrases and images I struggled to mine from magazine pages, are metaphors for goodness - faith, light, love, joy, beauty, courage, creativity. 

In my brokenness, I've struggled to recognize God's blessings, often taking what I have for granted. My vision board was a celebration (my one-little-word) of goodness! In the process of creating the board, I was visualizing God's grace in my life. 

The real miracle of my vision board happened a few days after my mid-night epiphany, when I received a phone call that was so full of goodness, it flooded and mended my wounded heart. The call was an an answer to my prayers, something I thought would never happen.

It worked! My vision board worked! I made it. I prayed it. I dreamt it. It happened. And in the end, it was worth every penny I paid for it.

What's In a Man's Heart

"A father should be his son's first hero, and his daughters first love."

When I was a child of five or six, I climbed into my father's lap as he sat waiting for my mother to finish dressing. Without objection, he stubbed out his cigarette, and pulled me close; his right arm held me protectively against his chest.

Freshly showered and shaved, Daddy smelled of Skin Bracer, and Lucky Strike cigarettes.

Comforted, I breathed deeply, and burrowed my cheek into the front of his crisply, starched shirt.

We sat there, just the two of us, in the quiet, semi-darkness of twilight. Safely wrapped in my daddy's arms, I was profoundly content. In my innocence, I knew what it was to be loved.

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom . . . with my ear pressed warmly against his chest . . . ba-boom, ba-boom . . . I could hear the rhythmic beat of my father's heart . . . Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom!

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, I was afraid.  Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom! I couldn't help but wonder . . . BA-BOOM . . . what would happen if . . . BA-BOOM . . . it stopped?  The thought was too painful to consider!

Panicked, I sat up, and broke the spell.

In every lifetime, there are defining moments. In that moment, I knew death, and understood what it meant to be mortal. My daddy, the person I loved more than any other, wouldn't be mine forever.

I was overwhelmed with fear. I simply couldn't bear the idea of a world void of my father's love.

Daddy's heart beats on into it's eightieth year, a milestone I tearfully celebrate with the little girl I once was. Our relationship with my father didn't end overnight in an exchange of angry words, and the slam of a door. It slipped away like water through the fingers of a cupped hand.

I accept responsibility for the role I played in the disintegration of our relationship, but still I wonder, did Daddy just forget who I was? I tried to remind him that I was still here, but he didn't seem to recognize the face of his child in the adult I'd become. I could speculate forever on the whys and wherefores, but in the end, only God knows what's in a man's heart.

For most of my life, my father made me feel loved, and for that I will always be grateful.

Happy Birthday Dad - we will always love you.

Celebrate! One Little Word

"I celebrate myself, and sing myself."

Walt Whitman

"Do we need any other proof of being spiritual-beings, than watching a child grow, and a personality blossom?"  
Fr. Jonathan Morris

I began this post with life affirming quotes from what would appear an odd-fellowship, American poet, humanist and author of the esteemed, Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman, and television personality, Fr. Jonathan Morris, a Catholic priest, spiritual advisor, and author of the best selling book, The Promise: God's Purpose and Plan for When Life Hurts. 

While one hundred years, life-styles and religious philosophies separate them, the quotes of both men enthusiastically celebrate the human condition. The passages, along with the whimsical photograph of my uninhibited, three-year-old grandson, make me smile!!

All in all, not a bad way to begin :)

In my last post Dancing in the Rain, I made reference to the One Little Word concept of selecting a single word each January to reflect and meditate on throughout the year.  

I stand at the threshold of the new year, in my pink wellies (English rain-boots) and raincoat, umbrella in hand, with a new companion -a new word - CELEBRATE!

As a child of God, created in His image, I am called to walk in His light - to seek out, recognize, and celebrate the good in my earthly life.

I purposefully chose a word that I felt would enrich not only my physical-being (the human condition), but my spiritual-self (soul) as well.  I looked for, and chose a word I believed to be life-affirming.

To this end, I have put forth the following twelve, monthly-intentions beginning with January's Celebration of a New Year, and continuing on with celebrate love, celebrate my faith, celebrate myself, celebrate motherhood, celebrate the earth, celebrate my freedom, celebrate the summer, celebrate God's bounty, celebrate family tradition/ritual, celebrate God's grace, and finally, to prepare for and celebrate the birth of Christ at Christmas.  

I'll be documenting my journey through written word, and photographs in a personal photo/journal inspired by Ali Edward's, One Little Word, prompts.

Pages from the journal will be located in the filmstrip at the top-right hand corner of this blog (click on the film-strip for full-sized, easy to view, copies of the pages).

For more of my OLW story, you're invited to read the short post, Dancing In the Rain,

Dancing In the Rain

A single word can be a powerful thing. It can be the ripple in the pond that changes everything. It can be sharp and biting or rich and soft.  From my own personal experience, it can be a catalyst for enriching your life.  Ali Edwards, One Little Word 2013

Two years ago, an ill wind blew a rather large, dark cloud into my little corner of the world and parked it directly over me and mine. The ensuing storm dumped buckets and buckets of water, caused the creek to rise, and temporarily knocked me off my feet.

In response to the rising water, I sought shelter in the warmth of our home, affectionately referred to as, the Ark, and prayed on a daily basis for an end to the menacing weather.

And while I still believe, that the shortest distance between a problem and a solution, is the distance between my knees and the floor, I now recognize that affecting climate change in happy valley isn't on God's immediate to-do list.

A pragmatic being, I realize that life is short.  Compelled to make the most of my time on earth, I hesitate to waste a moment more brooding about my misfortune, while watching the world go by my rain-streaked kitchen windows.  Surely, God wants more for me. Certainly he expects more from me.

Still, there's risk associated with wandering into a storm.  No matter how well I prepare, or clothe myself against the elements, I could be lost in a torrent of rain or overwhelmed by a flash flood.  Is it really worth taking the chance?

Yes! Behind the dark clouds, there is light, beauty and goodness. Further, I know that God doesn't want me to spend the rest of my life cowering in fear of the darkness. As a Christian, I am called to step into the light, to seek out, and celebrate each and every ray of light that peeks through the clouds, no matter how briefly, even if it means I end up dancing in the rain.

Four years ago, I began the tradition of selecting a single word each January that I reflect and meditate on throughout the year.  Words that have enriched my life in the past, are simplify, forward, mystery and resignation. 

While I may be an ordinary person, my life-journey has been extraordinary - full of blessings, travel, adventure and opportunity. My word is a companion on my journey along the road-less-traveled, challenging me to step outside my comfort zone, encouraging me to think outside the box, and comforting me in the darkness.

I stand at the threshold of the new year, in my pink wellies (English rain-boots) and raincoat, umbrella in hand, with a new companion - a new word - CELEBRATE!

I've resolved to step out into the rain, eyes to the clouds, in search of light and silver linings.  I will be happy, and I will celebrate the goodness.

(left) Granddaughter Regan, who shares my taste in rain boots.

Click here for more information on the one little word concept and Ali Edwards.




   

Walk Humbly With Your God - My Christmas Message 2012

Act justly, love tenderly, and walk humbly with your God.  Micah 6:8

It seems nobody sends good old-fashioned Christmas cards anymore - the sort with silver bells that deck the halls, nativity scenes, or jolly elves in Santa's workshop.

The few cards I get each year are mostly vanity cards with photos of people or pets I don't recognize - and have little if anything to do with Christmas.

For a while, vanity letters were all the rage, but they too seem to have gone by the wayside, along with foil-lined envelopes and flocking.

I'm not so much lamenting the death of the traditional card itself, as I am the ritual associated with them, and the message they delivered.

I remember my mother sitting at her card table each night the second week of December, surrounded by stacks of boxed cards she'd thoughtfully selected the week before. Mom's cards, always religious in nature, were intended to make a statement; our household celebrated the Christ in Christmas.

The cards we'd received the year before, complete with envelopes, were stacked alongside our out-going cards. Mom used a little plate and wet sponge to seal the envelopes. Each card was hand-signed, included a short personal note, and was posted with a beautiful Christmas stamp.

Each December day, I'd come home from school and flip through the newly arrived cards, looking for the popular Currier and Ives type depictions of horse-drawn sleighs, and snowy woodland landscapes. They were my favorites!

Mind you, I have nothing against today's vanity cards.  In my book, anyone that takes the time, and puts forth the effort to send anything, should be commended.  I have friends and family who say, they'll no longer send Christmas cards to those who won't reciprocate.  That's sad, but understandable.

Like my mother before me, I want the cards I send to make a statement.

This year, I selected one of my favorite images - a simple, one-room schoolhouse I captured in an Old-Order-Amish community, not far from my home in northwestern Pennsylvania.

The school sits on a rise alongside a bend in a rutted, dirt road.  I'd driven around one side, and past the front of the school before noticing the flash of color in my rearview mirror; two red sleds were propped against the side of the weathered, whitewashed building.

To me the image evokes, humble simplicity.

Today, there is so much glitz and glamour associated with the celebration of Christmas, that we forget the humble circumstances of the Christ-child's birth.  The message of giving without the expectation of getting something in return, has been lost.  We seem to be celebrating ourselves, rather than our Savior's birth.

Maybe my card will serve as a gentle reminder of what this holiday is all about.

Therefore, the Lord Himself will give you a sign:  Behold, a virgin will be with child and bear a son, and she will call His name Immanuel - God with US.  Isaiah 7:14

Act justly, love tenderly, and walk humbly with your God.  Micah 6:8

Merry Christmas, 

Karen

All I Want For Christmas is You

You are the angel atop my tree
You are my dream come true
Santa can't bring me what I need
'Cuz all I want for Christmas is you
    Vince Vance & the Valiants (click)

She was my dream come true, my Christmas angel, born just ten days before Christmas, 1982.  We brought her home from the hospital, lovingly swaddled in a handmade blanket, and placed her under our Christmas tree, the greatest gift.

Twenty-nine years, and seven months later, I received a simply worded text message, sent from the number I recognized as my daughter's phone, indicating that she'd passed away. In utter disbelief, I reread the text, checked the number, and read the text again.   

Only an hour before, while driving home from the city, I'd called that number, left a heartfelt voicemail, and requested a return call. The text message I received, came as I was slowing to exit the freeway. Gut-punched, I kept my wits about me long enough to safely pull the car off the roadway.

Our daughter was seven months pregnant, a horse trainer and riding instructor.  It was conceivable, that she'd had an accident, been kicked or thrown from a horse.  I tried to stop my heart from racing - to catch my breath. My only thought, not my baby!

Ten minutes later, after multiple hysterical phone calls, I confirmed that my daughter was alive and well. The text was merely a monstrous joke.

Twenty-four hundred miles, separate my daughter and I - my middle child - my Christmas angel.  The call I'd placed earlier that day, was only the third I'd made to what I believed to be her phone in almost two years.  I really hadn't expected her to answer.

I loathed the distance between us, but can't fully explain why I didn't do more sooner, to mend what was broken between us.  In spite of the love I felt for my child, I stubbornly clung to my pride, and hurt feelings. Further, I'd inadvertently left the door open so others could meddle in what should have been a sacred relationship.

The cruel text I received was sent in response to the emotional message I'd left on a stranger's phone that morning. My daughter's number had been reassigned. That text, was my wake-up call!

To be estranged from one's own child seems inconceivable to me, yet there I was - here I am.  Did the physical miles between us make it that easy to forget the love I felt for her, and the pain I willingly endured just to bring her into this world?  Had I taken my daughter for granted?  Was I asking too much?  Did it matter?    

Yesterday, while once again driving home from the city, I thought of my daughter, on the occasion of her thirtieth birthday. I hummed softly along with the radio, the words of the song made famous by Vince Vance & the Valiants, grateful that I still have an angel to place atop my tree when so many others do not.  While the road between us is still bumpy, most of the potholes have been filled.

As a nation, we mourn the loss of innocents in Connecticut - death at the hand of a madman.  By the grace of God, I was able to wish away the tragic ending to my story.   Rather than mourning the lost years and distance between us, I'll celebrate my daughter's life, remembering the love and joy I felt the morning I placed her under our Christmas tree.

All I Want For Chistmas is You, was written by Mariah Carey

A Pain I Can Live With

"Never, never be afraid to do what's right, especially if the welfare of a person or animal is at stake.  Society's punishments are small compared to the wounds we inflict on our soul when we look the other way."  - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

A dear friend of mine brought that quote to my attention last week. As soon as I read it, I felt the hand of God on my back, once again giving me the push I need to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard).

Dr. King's statement isn't only an admonition against moral negligence, it's a sad commentary on what can be expected when one does in fact act.

Doing the right thing, requires making a judgement call against the actions of another, or lack thereof, something popular, American culture frowns upon.

Unless the perceived violation is obviously offensive, the whistle-blower is forever left wondering if his or her intrusion was indeed justified.

Almost ten years ago, my mother, an exceptionally intelligent and well educated woman, began exhibiting signs of dementia - memory loss, confusion, disorientation.  She lost her ability to fluently articulate herself, maintain the family finances, buy groceries.

My father, her husband and soul-mate of fifty years, assumed the household chores.  He also made it his mission to cover for her mistakes - to keep her condition hidden.

Incredibly social individuals, my parents were determined to live the retirement lifestyle they'd aspired to, in spite of Mother's illness.  That lifestyle included the liberal consumption of alcohol.

I don't know if Mom was ever formally diagnosed with dementia, but she was prescribed a drug most commonly used to treat its symptoms.

I fully understand my parents' right and desire to live their golden years to their fullest, but there came a point at which I felt they were being reckless. Mother still self-medicated, had free access to the car, and the gas stove.  Cocktail hour began at home, or on the road, at 4:30. It wasn't a stretch to believe that somebody needed to remain sober.

I wasn't the only one alarmed.  Others shared their concerns with me. Mother herself complained bitterly about Dad's inability to moderate his alcohol consumption.  Clearly, something needed to be said, but sadly I was the only one willing to speak up.  Others opted to pray nothing bad happened, or worse, to wait for a crisis and then intervene.

While a firm believer in the power of prayer, I also believe that God gives us a voice and expects us to use it (something Mom's father used to say).

There were boundaries I never crossed with my Dad, and I worried he'd look upon what I had to say as an intrusion.  Nobody wants to be told how to live, least of all an educated man in his seventies.

As anticipated, Dad perceived my show of concern as an attack, and launched a counter-attack, dividing the family.

I'll never know if my words or actions prevented a tragedy, or caused my parents to moderate their lifestyle.  I would like to believe that some good came from the suffering that ensued.

My parents consider my intervention a betrayal they can't forgive.  I am no longer welcome in their home.  I love them, and pray they are safe and happy.

Morally, and intellectually, I know I did the right thing.  Would I do it again?  You bet!  The faint-hearteds' refusal to intervene empowered my father to continue down a path of self-destruction with my mother in tow.

Still my heart aches for the loss.  But it's a pain I can learn to live with.

To read more about this story, CLICK the following links: I'd Like To Report a Drowning . . . My Own, Accepting That It's Simply So, Resignation, Dancing In the Rain.

No Man Is An Island

No man is an island,
entire of itself . . .
     John Donne (1572 -1631)

I've never minded spending time alone, which has been both a blessing and curse.  I wasn't exactly a nerdy child, but I admit to spending long hours alone in my room sorting through envelopes of foreign stamps, researching the value of old coins, composing poetic ditties, and short stories.  As an adult, my ability to spend long periods of time happily in my own company has been a godsend, considering the fact that my husband has traveled routinely throughout our thirty-one year marriage.

When we had horses at home, I never minded the hours spent mucking stalls, cleaning tack, or polishing riding boots. In fact, we used to joke that my daughters had the shiniest boots on the dressage show circuit.

Yesterday, I was tasked with scrubbing century old moss from stone cut from the old mill foundation. The stones will be used to face the hearth and fireplace in our new home.  I was alone for hours behind the garage - above the rushing creek - on my hands and knees - just the stones, a wire brush and I. Lost in my thoughts, I enjoyed the alone time.

It's been a particularly busy summer for Rick and I. Overseeing the construction of our home, has been a full-time project. Living on an open construction site was quite an adjustment, but we grew accustomed to waking to a symphony of bulldozers, power saws, and nail drivers.  After our morning coffee, we'd take our daily marching orders from the contractor, and set off across the countryside to fill them, returning each afternoon with research to share, or boxes to unload.

Through it all, Rick had a business to run, making several trips back and forth to California via Pittsburgh. From our little cottage on Mill Creek, we endeavored to plant business roots in our new community, holding strategy meetings on our summer porch.

In May, we welcomed a new member to our little farm family. Trooper, our little red lab puppy, now more closely resembles Clifford, the Big Red Dog. After three summers of TLC, my flower garden was a sight to behold, and my carefully researched feeding station managed to attract a wide variety of butterflies and songbirds. My little vegetable garden produced its first cucumbers in late June, zucchini in August, and tomatoes in abundance.

From locally grown organic produce, I've processed enough veggies, jams, pickles, soup, salsas and relish, to stock our new pantry for at least a year.  At one point, protesting the time and space my food science projects were demanding, Rick banished my cookbooks and canning supplies to the storage pod (they've since freed themselves, and have returned to the cottage).

Our happiest days, were those spent with our children and grandchildren.  They came, and we went - to country fairs and tractor shows - to the diary hut for homemade ice cream. We watched them splash and play in the cool water of Mill Creek by day, and roast marshmallows around the bonfire by starlight.  What a pleasure it's been watching them grow to enjoy the magic of this place.

There was sadness too in this summer - loss and frustration - the sort that one either survives, or doesn't.  I survived.

At one point yesterday, as I crouched over the foundation stones, focused, busily scraping away the layers of lichen and moss, the mason appeared before me, dripping in sweat and covered in stone dust.  He admonished me saying that if I scrubbed too hard, I'd alter the very character of the stone that I admired so much.

The mason was right.  I stood up, turned on the hose, and washed away the layers of dirt and moss that I'd loosened.  The old foundation stones came alive with color.  There were divots and cracks, tool marks left by the original masons that quarried and cut the stone by hand, and bits of the original mortar that had adhered to, and become part of the stone.  I stood back and proudly admired my work, and added my name to the invisible list of those that had handled the massive chunks of sandstone across two centuries.

Sometimes its alright to be content with yourself, blissfully ignorant of the world around you, and sometimes its okay to retreat and grieve. But there always comes a time, when one must stand up, step back, and look at the bigger picture to gain perspective. Sometimes we need others to remind us to do so, and the wisdom to listen to them.

The construction on our house, is coming to a long anticipated end, and our busy summer is drawing to a close.  In a matter of weeks, autumn will die away into winter, and with the inevitable snowfall, there will be long periods of quiet and solitude here.  I'll enjoy the alone time.  But I have faith that winter will give way to spring, and spring into summer, and with it, the hustle and bustle, the laughter, and children . . .

No man is an island entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent, 
a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, 
Europe is the less, 
as well as if a promontory were,
as well as a manor of thy friends or of thine own were;
any man's death diminishes me, 
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.
                John Donne

SNAP!

On Being Fully Human  -  An Easter Season Reflection

To love at all, is to be vulnerable.  

Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung, and possibly broken.  

If you want to be sure of keeping it intact, 

you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal.  

Wrap it carefully round, with hobbies and little luxuries; 

avoid all entanglements; lock it safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.  

But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change.

It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. 

C. S. Lewis

  

If A House Could Talk

And so it begins!  With the arrival of the first brown boxes, bubble-wrap and packaging tape, our move has officially commenced.  I'd honestly thought I'd seen the last of corrugated cardboard, and unprinted newspaper, when the last of our shipping boxes had been hauled away, almost three years ago.  But, as I keep reminding myself, you never know what lies around the bend.

When Rick and I made the decision to pack-up our life in California, and head back east, we weren't just moving, we were returning home.  Though Rick never lived in Pittsburgh, we both considered my aunt and uncle's house, our home-away-from-home.

If houses could talk, this one would tell the tale of my aunt and uncle's family - our family - for it was under this roof that Rick and I began our life together.  We toasted our wedding vows, baptized our daughter, shared laughter, and cried a few tears here, in the company of our extended family.

My aunt and uncle built this house, loved it, and considered it a gathering place. Though they never had children of their own to fill the space, nieces and nephews grew up here, opened presents at Christmas, played tag in the yard on summer evenings.

My uncle told ghost stories around the fire-pit out back, tended his bar, and worked from his office upstairs.  My aunt busied herself in the kitchen, lovingly baking for family and friends, tenderly nurtured her garden, and cared for her dogs.

My beloved Grandmother, slipped peacefully from our world, and into the next in the back bedroom upstairs; my aunt whispered her wedding vows before a priest in the great room, just minutes before receiving last rites. Two short years after losing Lynn to cancer, we mourned the death of my uncle, and for a short period of time, the house sat quiet and empty, unloved.

There was much to be done before we could move in; more than forty years worth of memories had been collected and stored in the house, and it's attic. Once the house had been cleaned, painted and carpeted, we settled in, and the house came alive again.

I spent hundreds of hours in the garden, trying to make everything right, but the last few years of neglect, had taken their toll.  I felt sad for my aunt, and for all of the pretty little blooming things that had died along with her. I did my best to revive what was left, to bring back the love that the house, and the yard had enjoyed for so long.

As much as I dread packing, I don't feel bad about moving, as I know that I'm leaving my aunt and uncle's legacy in good hands.  A year ago, we celebrated the Christening of my first granddaughter, twenty-six years after we celebrated her mother's baptism, in this very house. It comforts me to know that my daughter, the new lady-of-the-house, has cherished, and loved it since she was a little girl.

A few days before she died, in what was our final good-bye, my aunt confessed she would miss me. I left the house that day, never really expecting to return, but not knowing what was around the bend.  For years I played those awful moments over and over in my head, picturing the pitifully sad expression on her face, as she mouthed those last words.

Next month, as I close the door behind me, I'll imagine my aunt looking down from above with a smile on her face, the space that she loved, now filled with the voices of children. I know there's nothing that would have pleased her more than to know, that the tale of her family continues.

With a deep breath, the house sighs and says, "I'm happy."

The two little signs in the photos above, were left in the house after my uncle died.  They're a perfect reflection of the people that lived here.

Fly Away

One, two, three, like a bird I sing,

'Cause you've given me the most beautiful set of wings.

Tim McGraw

Some people have within themselves, the ability to inspire and empower other people.  

There once was an angel delivered from heaven without any pomp or fanfare.  And, though she appeared on earth, as a plain and simple being of modest pretensions, those that knew her perceived that she was full of God's grace.

She had an innate store of goodwill, and an infectious enthusiasm for life.  As, an anointed protectress of those in need, the tendrils of her bountiful compassion embraced the least of God's creatures. On gossamer wings, she raised the lowly, endowing each with dignity beyond their station in life. 

There were lessons to be learned from the angel, but she never lectured or preached, choosing instead, to lead by example.

She sought, and nurtured the good in all of her acolytes, encouraging us to rise above our fear and apprehension, to reach for more, to become more than we'd thought possible.

Her unfettered faith in our ability, inspired us to seek out, and find, the courage and strength necessary to spread our own wings, and fly. 

Those of us that loved her, expected that she would be amongst us forever, forgetting that while on earth, she was subject to the weight of temporal burdens. When God realized that his angel was no longer able to take flight on her own, he reached down from above, and carried her home.

Though I am no longer able to see her, the impression she made upon me lingers, and with every beat of my heart, I hear the flutter of her wings, and know, that she is with me still, telling me to fly.

In loving memory of Marilyn Donovan Fluke, March 2, 1938 - August 24, 2006


All photos by Mrs. Green Jeans, 2011

Believing in Angels

(First post in the One Little Word series)

I believe in angels,

Something good in everything I see.

I'm not sure, but I suspect I'm being stalked by an angel.  Not that I'm complaining, mind you.  After all, angels are messengers of God, protectors and guardians; so I suppose I have nothing to fear.

Still, I have to admit it's a bit unnerving, knowing there's an angel looking over my shoulder.

I've never questioned the existence of angels, though I admit I haven't given them much thought in recent years.  I have a dozen or so, that I hang on my tree each Christmas.  They're cherubs actually, that I bought to fill the branches of my over-sized tree, with no particular sentiment attached.

This particular angel, the new angel, came to me as a gift adorned in tissue paper, inside an ordinary looking gift bag, a week or so after Christmas. Its a solemn angel, resting on bended knees, hands folded in prayer.

I remember thinking, as the tissue fell away, that it was on odd sort of gift.  I hadn't openly expressed an interest in angels, or in religious statuary of any kind, that would prompt its purchase.

The mere idea of it, baffled me.

Did I look like the sort of person that would appreciate a plaster angel?

I took it home, and sat it on a bookshelf overlooking my desk. I still wasn't sure what to make of it.

In the weeks that followed, I kept stumbling over references to angels and the angelic, in television advertising, song lyrics, and blog posts; and with each and every mention, I thought of my angel.  Perhaps there was more to her than her plaster veneer?

If I had any doubts of her mystical intent, they were dashed when her picture appeared in an article on the front page of our local newspaper, a paper we'd seemingly purchased at whim.

I know there have been times, when God has tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention, and I disregarded the tap.

He's whispered in my ear, and I failed to recognize His voice.

This time, He sent someone knocking at my door, and I've answered.

Though her presence and message remain a mystery to me, I'll encourage her to stay a while.  Perhaps, it's a mystery we'll solve together, in time.

Angel of God, my guardian dear,

To whom God's love, commits me here,

Ever this day, be at my side

To light and guard, to rule and guide.

Amen

I Have a Dream, ABBA's hit song from which the introductory quote was taken, was released in 1979.

All photos taken by Mrs. Green Jeans, 2011

When God Closes a Door . . .

I've often heard it said, "When God closes a door . . . 

. . . He opens a window.

In January of 2001, I traveled to Washington D.C. to join my husband in celebration of the inauguration of George W. Bush.  I left my three teenaged daughters at home, and in-charge of our small horse farm in Camarillo, California.  We were having some renovations done, some paddocks put in, and a wooden fence erected to screen our property from the bridle path. I was hesitant to go, considering I was leaving a work-in-progress, but anxious to see my husband who was heading a work-related project in Maryland that year.

Our girls had always been reliably responsible, so I had no worries as far as leaving them alone was concerned.  It was leaving our four-legged family, that put me on edge, but I assured myself that any emergency could be easily handled by telephoning our neighborhood veterinarian (he lived a block over, and he made house-calls).

I was assured that no construction work would be done while I was gone, and insisted the contractor block the open section of fencing.  I was less than pleased with the plastic construction fence the contractor used to secure the yard, but didn't want to appear unreasonable, so shrugged and hoped for the best.

In spite of a blizzard that struck the capital the evening of the inauguration, we managed to enjoy our weekend in D.C.  On the way to the airport on Monday morning, my husband broke the news that our three-year-old lab, Guiness, had slipped through the shoddily blocked opening in the fence, was struck, and killed by a motorist.  I was devastated.

Guiness on the far left, with his mother and sister.

One of the primary reasons we'd agreed to erect the privacy fence, was to block the dogs' view of the pathway that led to a canyon below our property.  The coyotes used the path to enter the neighborhood during the evening hours, which greatly agitated our family of labs, who'd made it their mission in life, to chase and dispose of the coyotes.

When we walked into the house that evening, our daughters had gathered on one side of the large country kitchen, eyes swollen, heads hung low.  Our remaining three labs, Mamma, Pappa and Sister, as well as our adopted cross-bred, Koko, were splayed across the brick floor.  Not one, rose to greet us as we entered.  It was indeed, a house in mourning.  I wonder to this day, how those dogs knew what had happened?  Was it pure empathy, or did they truly suffer the loss?

Life on our little farm, resumed, as did the construction.  I was never able to look the contractor in the eye after that weekend, and was relieved when the project was completed, a week later.  I'd given him a piece of my mind, when he returned to work, but it didn't replace the life we'd lost through negligence.

One night after dinner a few weeks later, my daughter looked up from the newspaper she was reading and excitedly announced that a litter of Scottie puppies was offered for sale through a breeder in San Diego.  I'd grown up with a Scottie, and we'd had another when the girls were just babies.  Our little Angus McShane had lived to a ripe old age, and was dearly missed.  We'd looked for years for another, but good breeders were few and far between.  The timing certainly seemed right.

Scout (with daughter Bridget) was a favorite on the international horse-show circuit as well, here capturing the eye of a professional photographer.

A phone call, and a trip to San Diego followed.  Within a month, White Dog's Girl Scout, joined our family of labs, and captured our hearts.  Scout was truly one-of-a-kind, with a personality ten-times the size of her small stature.  Certainly the alpha-dog, she ruled the roost, and kept the other White Dogs in line.  Scout lived life large.  There was an exaggerated swagger to her walk; she carried herself with the dignity and grace of royalty.  We were often stopped when out and about, and asked if she was a show-dog.  She liked that!

Our beloved Scottie passed away this past fall.  Its taken me this long to muster the courage to write about her.  Scrappy and spunky, Scout was all terrier, surviving both snail-bait poisoning and a rattlesnake bite. She lived life on her own terms, and was a fighter until the end, succumbing to cancer, after a year-long battle.

Scout's passing, closed a chapter in my life.  Time to move on . . . and look for another window to open . . .

In loving memory of Guiness, Scout, and all of the special pets we carry still in our hearts.

A Child's Prayer

Dear God,

I pray You'll help me grow to be

the kind of child who pleases You,

a child who blesses others too.

Guide my step and guard my way,

help me follow You each day.

Give to me a faith that's strong,

teach me to choose right, not wrong.

Forgive my faults, both big and small,

 

protect my loved ones, bless them all . . . 

Throughout the day, 

all through the night,

enfold me in Your love and light.

Amen

                                                                      Author Unknown

All photos by Mrs. Green Jeans, Moonlight Beach, Encinitas, CA  2011
Special thanks to my grandsons, Shane and Conor, and my daughter Brooke.