Tag Archives: mylife

For All the (Online) Saints

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Stephanie (middle) and I met in the comments sections of Donna’s (right) blog, Quiet Life. We had many “you, too?” moments when we discovered that we both loved music, particularly hymns, specifically Ralph Vaughan Williams, and what about this phrase in For All the Saints. 

Kindred was a word Steph and I kept using to describe our relationship. We both had moments, those capsules of time where everything outside the moment turns all fuzzy and bokeh, when the overwhelming beauty of words—usually expressed musically—envelops you. “Repeat” is a necessary function when we can’t get enough of a new song, even after twenty listens. We know what it is to play the piano (and organ, for Steph) through tears of sheer joy. One of Steph’s favorite lines is lost in wonder, love, and praise.

It’s inexplicable, isn’t it, how music extracts deep pockets of pain and sharp piercings of joy and distills them into beauty. How tendrils of music reach deep into the soul and loosen the packed-together clumps. How a tune can both move and paralyze you. How an unexpected chord progression makes all your muscles go slack in amazement. How sound waves can physically alter your body. (I speak here of goosebumps.)

So my sister Dorothy and I drove three hours through autumnal wonder to share three hours with Steph, Donna, and Donna’s daughter Katie. Lunch at the the local Mexican restaurant was a minuet of conversation, stories and laughter. It must’ve taken us a half hour to get to the point where we could look at menus and order. After lunch we went to Stephanie’s church, Trinity Episcopal, where a pipe digital organ was recently installed. I can say with conviction that I have never seen a more beautiful small church. It is, from this day, my picture of Lord’s Chapel when I read Jan Karon’s Mitford books.

 

   

The first long hug, the shared meal, the photos outside—all these were a delightful prelude. But when I heard my current favorite hymn, Only Begotten, on a pipe organ played by a friend who has music threaded throughout her DNA, I took deep drinks of truth, goodness, and beauty. Because it was not a formal concert, I could squeal when she moved from one key to another (modulation in musicspeak) with a gorgeous sequence of chords. Stop! How did you do that? And she translated.

My current definition of heaven is this: a gifted and beloved friend playing my requests on the pipe digital-but-sounds-like-pipe organ.

I cried…joyful tears.

I hurt…because beauty is sharp and shining.

I sang…because how could I keep from singing?

Steph moved to the keyboard and the magic continued. She weaves O, the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus in a way that you hear the ocean currents. As we sang and listened there were undercurrents of understanding, unspoken connections. We sang Donna’s favorite, How Great Thou Art. Before we could quite catch a breath, our time was over, and I was wondering if it was a dream or for reals. 

Today, November 1st, Stephanie’s Christmas CD, Cradle & Cross, is released. You can sample and purchase it for download at Amazon or iTunes. Or you can order CD’s here.

Donna blogged about our meeting, with fabulous pictures, here.

 

::          ::          ::

 

 May I add a bit about Katie?
Inside my head, I call some people BIO-[insert name].
Katie is BIO-Katie.
Beautiful, inside and out.

She was gracious when I said, upon meeting her,
“I feel like I know you, Katie!”
All her mom’s fans say that.
Note to self: next time say something more original.

She was engaged, thoughtful, and articulate,
contributing to our conversations.

Clearly, she is cherished.
It shows.
Her presence added to an already special day.

It was great to meet you, Katie.

 

The Gift of Ann Voskamp

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She looks like a college student, not the mother of six kids, all spritely in her cute black dress and knee length boots. You expect a high voice, but it is a husky one that begins, “I’m in over my head.”

I don’t have time this morning to tell you about her humble spirit, her potent words, her exhortation to slow down, wake up, pay attention and above all to give thanks.

But you can hear her message to Wheaton College students yesterday here.

Serendipity Overload

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Serendipity
is one of my favorite words.
My definition: finding something wonderful that you weren’t looking for.

 

One of the most splendid serendipitous events of my life took place on Monday night.

I was packing for a trip to Chicago to see my family and friends. I had inherited my Aunt Betty’s photograph album. She died in July near Cape Town, South Africa. She never had children; her friend wanted to send her few personal effects to a family member and asked me if I wanted them. Of course, I replied. When the packages arrived there were two paintings, some brooches, a cross-stitch I had done for her, and a photo album.

I was interested in seeing pictures of my grandpa and grandma, Aunt Betty, Jean-Blaise—my Congolese cousin (my aunt’s foster son)—, and dear Virginia who was my aunt’s best friend. My aunt survived three husbands and I couldn’t distinguish #1, #2 and #3 in the pictures. Obviously, I didn’t pore over each picture. My life was full when the packages arrived; I remember enjoying the photos and setting them on a shelf.

When I was picking pictures to bring with me on the trip, there were a few bunched up underneath another photo. I drew one out and saw Aunt Betty pushing a stroller with two toddlers: my oldest sister and brother. She had come to help out my mom.

The next picture was my mom holding a baby. I turned it over and read, “Nellie and Carol Ruth, 3 months.” Electricity sluiced through my body. There was my mom. And there was me.  I have never seen a picture of me as a baby. I didn’t think one existed. One of the hazards of being a seventh born.

The next photo was just overload. I was stunned. The date down the vertical margin was MAR 55. Elisabeth Elliot holding Valerie with Jim Elliot next to her. I don’t know where this picture was taken. Or why my aunt had it. Two possibilities exist. 1) Aunt Betty was a classmate of Betty Howard (aka EE) at a girls boarding school in Florida. But I never got the impression from Aunt Betty that they were particularly close. 2) Jim Elliot and my grandpa were close friends during his time at Wheaton. Perhaps my grandpa was the original recipient of the photo and my aunt inherited it after Grandpa and Grandma died? 

Who took the Elliot family photo? These scans don’t show it, but both pictures are the same size with the same border. This will take some research.

 

 

I love spending time finding the right word, the word that best fits the need. But, gentle reader, I am flummoxed and befuddled. To articulate the treasure that I have been given requires words I don’t yet know. I do know this: I am forever thankful. Thank you Aunt Betty, for saving a piece of my history. Thank you Virginia, for ensuring these treasures weren’t thrown away. Thank you, Almighty God, from Whom all blessings flow.

 

Eric Bibb Again

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Eric doing a sound check

This was my third Eric Bibb concert.
It’s beginning to feel like we’re old friends.

Eric Bibb is a reader.
When I asked him what he’s reading,
he pulled a few books out of his backpack and showed me.

It’s still a thrill.
An internationally acclaimed musician,
in the lovely place we call The Shire.

Family friendly, oh yes!

The Joseph canyon as our backdrop

“There are places I play that are My Kind of Place…as opposed to just a gig.
This is definitely My Kind of Place.”

“Playing outdoors is a whole nother thing.
Nature has perfect EQ.”

Eric brought a friend along.
Grant Dermody is an exceptionally talented harmonica player.

Matthew, a younger harmonica player, is recording a song.

A charming repartee developed between Eric and the audience.
“We having us a good time,” Eric laughed.
“Even the Squares are having a ball!” someone yelled.
Eric instantly perked up.
“Thank you. That’s the title of my next song!”

“I like to write new songs brewed on old vapors.”

Dusk descended, shrouding us in an indigo glow.

    Eric Bibb’s version of Wayfaring Stranger is deep, rich, compelling.
“The great songs last.”


What Eric Bibb brings with his music is passion;
he is fully engaged in every piece he plays.

He promised to come back. And.
He promised to play my favorite song about reading:
Turning Pages

::     ::     ::

   In 2007 I first discovered Eric Bibb.

In 2008 we traveled six hours—through an epic blizzard—to see him.

In 2009, Eric came to us!

My South African Aunt

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My Aunt Betty [7/16/1926 – 7/23/2011] and her son Jean Blaise

Although I had never seen her, the knowledge that I had an aunt living in South Africa was both delicious and thrilling to my young heart.  I fingered the African curios on the bookshelf by the piano: woven baskets, a small carved ivory tusk, a wooden giraffe.  My favorite doll was an African baby with tight black curls and beaded skirts.

I would sit in the kitchen and quiz my mom on the family tree: going through aunts, uncles and cousins and fitting them, like puzzle pieces, in their proper place.  There was a secret satisfaction when we came to Aunt Betty and Aunt Ruthie. I felt a connection to these foreign aunts because I had been given their names, Carol from Elizabeth Carolyn and Ruth from Ruth Ethel.

 ::     ::     ::

After I grew up and married, Aunt Betty visited us in California. She was aghast at the extravagant size of our mugs and glasses. “Everything here is SO BIG!” she exclaimed.  When we shopped for groceries she informed me how many rands it would take to purchase each item, a bit of information that baffled me.

One night she suggested we drink coffee.

“We aren’t coffee drinkers, Aunt Betty, but I’d be glad to make you a cup.”

“Why don’t you drink coffee?” she inquired.

“We just don’t like the taste.” (We didn’t back then!)

“Let me make the coffee and I promise you will like it!” She warmed a small pan of milk, mixed in a cup of sugar and added instant coffee.  And so we enjoyed our first latte.

 ::     ::     ::

Several years later, she again paid us a visit. Aunt Betty helped me plant my garden, dispensing folk wisdom for better tomatoes and healthy vegetables. She gave me a cloth bib she had sewn with an African print…and I continue to use it on my grandsons.

One afternoon my young son, on his own initiative, climbed up on Aunt Betty’s lap and snuggled into her. She almost came undone with surprise and delight.That hour of rocking him, holding him close, giving and accepting affection,was a highlight of her visit.

 ::     ::     ::

Like all of us, Betty hadconflicting desires. She was a study in contrasts:

    ~ compassionate and yet critical

   ~ exotic and yet proper

   ~ generous and yet demanding

   ~ confident and yet insecure

   ~ stubborn and yet charming

   ~ connected and yet lonely

::     ::    ::

A good way to know a woman is to notice what she loves.  Aunt Betty loved the Lord Jesus, she loved being connected with family, she loved good food, sewing, gardening, old hymns, telephone calls, getting a bargain, dressing well and her beloved South Africa.

She dearly loved Jean Blaise. Many phone calls were filled with stories about “her son” and how pleased she was with him. “He calls me Mum,” she said. Jean Blaise gave her a focus; helping him was the crowning achievement of her life. Through Betty’s love and generosity, I now have a cousin/brother in South Africa. Through Aunt Betty and now through Jean Blaise, I will always be connected to South Africa.


I Do

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I do.                        Two small words.    

Take.                      Four
Have.                    four-
Hold.                       letter
Love.                       words

Cherish.                 One of the longest word in the vows.

The words are simple.
Which is not the same as saying it is easy.
Sometimes it is remarkably rough.
After we’ve weathered difficult seasons we find ourselves still holding, loving, and cherishing.
 
Happy Anniversary, Curt! 33 Years! You make it easy.

::    ::     ::

We watched a Lark Rise to Candleford episode in which a father figure offers a poem to a nervous bride who fears her husband will stop loving her when he really knows her. Curt looks at me and asks, “Which poem, babe?”

As I thought, it was William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixéd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
     If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
     I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

What I Owe My Father-in-law

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The short answer: a bunch.

When I consulted with my 19-year-old self, I decided that one vital point I would look for in a potential husband was a guy who had a robust relationship with his dad. I craved children; even more, I wanted a man who would be a good father to those future children. Specifically, I wanted a man who had lived with an example of strong leadership, who knew firsthand what a good dad looked like; a man who wanted to be like his father.

[Disclaimer: I know that men who have had passive, indifferent, distant, or abusive fathers are capable of being good dads.]

Thus, when I talked to a guy who dissed his dad, I drew a mental X next to his name: Disqualified.

When Curt and I started going out, he was working summers with his dad. He came to take me to dinner in his dad’s brand new Triumph Spitfire. There was a confidence and respect that flowed between those two men. Curt introduced me to his parents very early in our relationship. When it came time to marry, Curt did not hesitate in choosing his Best Man: “my Dad“. After we had children, we moved nine hours to our current location (where Curt’s folks lived) in order for our kids to live close to their grandparents. Curt and his dad formed a partnership and worked together 12 years. Ever since Curt was old enough to hold a gun, they have hunted together.

“Dad” poured himself into Curt, and through the man his son became, my sons and I have reaped a boatload of benefits. What did Curt learn from his dad? Motivation to work; equilibrium expressed in the family motto: Let’s get the work done and then have fun!; a willingness to confront tough issues and pursue resolution; the courage to be unpopular; stubbornness; unflinching sacrifice; bluntness; the beauty of order; affection; fidelity; compassion; service; laughter.

He made an investment. He renewed that investment. He continues to invest. And I am the rich beneficiary.

Exile in a Cellular Land

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When I travel, I inevitably get the request. 

“I need your cell number.”

Yeah.  I mean, no.  See, I don’t own a cell phone. 

I’m not morally, philosophically, environmentally, esoterically, aesthetically or fundamentally opposed to cell phones.

It started as a financial decision.  We really didn’t need a cell phone and not incurring that monthly charge was like having Weight Watcher bonus points in our financial diet.

It’s evolved into a game of How Long Can We Last? with a bonus round of Think of What We Can Do With That Money. The average monthly cell phone bill is $60/month.  Hmm.  That’s about 20 books (I buy them used); a good pair of sandals; an elegant dinner out. Or, if I bundle a year of not paying for a cell phone, it is two plane tickets to visit a sibling.

Not only does it save money, not having a cell phone saves time answering those “Wassup?” calls.  

I believe that cell phones make us (the collective us) less independent, less confident, less decisive.  And, while they are certainly more convenient, I believe they make us, dare I say it, less connected. 

I don’t want to be presumptuous. If travel were a constant in our lives, it would make sense   be wise to have the means to communicate.

I have a resident curmudgeon inside me: if I’m honest I’d admit it’s fun to be eccentric. I take joy pointing out that what seems impossible today was simply normal thirty years ago.  

One of the ironies of not packing a cell phone is that I lug around our laptop, allowing me to send and receive emails (and update my Facebook status) when I’m traveling.

We will pole vault over the digital divide when the cost and benefits of cell phones outweigh a land line.  I’m content without one for now.

After I wrote this, I read the quote below, which was just too rich to omit from this post.  It is from Matthew Algeo’s delightful book, Harry Truman’s Excellent Adventure.

A cell phone isolates its user from those around him. That’s why people on cell phones are comfortable discussing, for example, the explicit details of a doctor’s appointment in a roomful of strangers. They feel like they are alone.

A History of Illicit Laughter

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Laughter is the shortest distance between two people.
~ Victor Borge

I woke up giggling this morning.  We had decided to sleep in and my laughter broke covenant.  Oh great, muttered my husband. Josh, where are you?  Curt’s words launched me on a new round of mirth. 

Josh, who is like a son to me, and I have a history of horse laughs.  When he was Jr. high age, something would set us off and all our pent up laughter would come bursting out in loud guffaws: gasping, tear-squeezing, body-wracking sobs of laughter.  Slowly we decelerated and calmed down until one glance set off more horse laughs.  By the time we settled down we couldn’t even remember what was so funny.

What is weird about those episodes is that they happened around our table. Suppression was never an option. No one else understood us but they got a good entertainment package from our shtick. 

The most wicked laughter is the illicit kind.  Laughter that is wildly inappropriate is the funniest. And it’s even wilder if the source of amusement is mutually understood by less than three people. 

Let me assert a long-neglected truth
that nothing binds two people together
 like a history of illicit laughter.

My friend Ilene and I bobbled our way through my dad’s sermon at Bible camp when we were nine. When he spoke about a conjunction saying thank God for that but, we heard thank God for that butt. I still remember my pathetic attempts to disguise the laughter into sneezing, coughing, tears of repentance, anything but laughter. 

My  most humiliating episode took place with my sister-in-law at our niece’s wedding.  Our nephew thrust a camera into her hand moments before the ceremony began with a request to take pictures.  The camera had a mystifying delay on the trigger and as attendants processed, Karyl Lynn missed each beautiful bridesmaid, ending up with photos of an empty aisle.  Horrified at muffing every single shot, she planned to get the entire wedding party while they stood at the front. 

She clicked. 

“Let us pray,” intoned the preacher. A twinkle of silence sat suspended in the air.

Then the bewitched camera began a loud rewinding. Aghast, my sister-in-law shoved the camera under her thigh. That only seemed to amplify the clicking and clacking. 

And off we went.  Two middle-aged woman shaking, shivering, shambling with laughter. 

After the prayer, my brother, her husband, stood up for Scripture reading.  He put on his pastor’s voice and began the reading when he noticed our ridiculous posture: hands over our mouths, over our eyes, vibrating, pulsing, out-of-control.  It was all he could do not to check his fly.  We came close to landing this massive laughter, when he sat back down and muttered What is going on?, effectively relaunching that airship. 

I am truly ashamed to admit that we laughed through the entire ceremony.  Amidst the throes I knew I needed to rein it in, find composure.  But we played off each other; every time we grabbed three quick sighs and a slow cleansing breath, the other would release a tiny snicker which was jet engine fuel.     

After the ceremony the bride and groom acted as ushers greeting friends as they left their pews.  The bride looked at me quizzically and asked, Aunt Carol were you laughing or crying?  I’ll explain it one day, I promised.