What tone of Psalmist voice says "Be Still"?
Admonition? Invitation? Consolation? Consternation?
A mother's voice to a restless chld fighting sleep? "Time to be quiet, I'll watch you and keep."
A daddy's reassurance as he holds out his arm? "Come, let me hold you, safe from harm."
A friend's response to grief or to pain? "Take your peace. I am with you, in loss or in gain."
Pulling thorn, setting bone. I am still, but not alone.
I read the words in all the voices and don't yet know what more will be.
But in every voice I hear God telling He knows a way that's best for me.
Be Still.
Cease Striving.
Kinow that I am God.
Psalm 46:10
But you, O Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, and the one who lifts up my head.
Psalm 3:3
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
January Garden Gifts
Clumps of fountain grass whisper as they dance with the wind.
Branches with curling bark and a few hanging leaves silhouette against pewter sky.
Pond fish swish far back under rocks.
Today is wet Winter. Yesterday felt like Spring sunshine.
Narcissus and daffodil are just beginning their green peep through.
But pansies and snapdragons still offer golden yellow and crimson and velvety purple petals. Rosemary,thyme, oregano, and dill provide a whole palette of green, plus fragrance for my fingers when I cut them for soups. Lentil, chicken, potato and tomato.
And the roses, oh the roses! A table with steaming bowls of soup and a little jar of golden roses warms my body and my soul.
Friday, January 23, 2009
New Song
Learning new ways of writing is like learning new music. It is easier to hum along with familiar melodies and rhythms. Learning the yet untried means deliberate focus, attention to details, and risking mistakes. I need to listen and learn as I work on song. I am listening and learning as I work with words. May singer and writer stretch to embrace the new notes.
The Untried Melody
Howard Thurman
I will sing a new song.
I must learn the new song for the new needs
I must fashion new words born of all the new growth in my life---of my mind---of my spirit.
I must prepare for new melodies that have never been mine before,
That all that is within me may lift my voice unto God.
How I love the old familiarity of the wearied melody,
How I shrink from the harsh discords of the new untried harmonies.
Teach me, my Father, that I might learn with the abandonment and enthusiasm of Jesus,
The fresh new accent, the untried melody,
to meet the need of the untried morrow.
Source: from "I Will Sing a New Song" in Meditations of the Heart
The Untried Melody
Howard Thurman
I will sing a new song.
I must learn the new song for the new needs
I must fashion new words born of all the new growth in my life---of my mind---of my spirit.
I must prepare for new melodies that have never been mine before,
That all that is within me may lift my voice unto God.
How I love the old familiarity of the wearied melody,
How I shrink from the harsh discords of the new untried harmonies.
Teach me, my Father, that I might learn with the abandonment and enthusiasm of Jesus,
The fresh new accent, the untried melody,
to meet the need of the untried morrow.
Source: from "I Will Sing a New Song" in Meditations of the Heart
Friday, January 16, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Grandma Terrell's Table
Last night we gathered after work and school to celebrate Sean's birthday. I pulled out my biggest soup pot and made gumbo with shrimp and crab. As I chopped and added tomatoes and onions and garlic and some of the last garden peppers to survive winter temperatures, the house filled with promising smells. The addition of rice and a crusty baguette and a Red Velvet cake completed the menu, but not the celebration.
That happens in many places, but mostly we gather noisly around the table where there is a sign that says "Memories Made Here." If the oak could speak, it would fill our hearts with stories. The table came to me when my grandmother was going to live somewhere other than her home. Today I believe it is called downsizing. She called it "breaking up housekeeping". My grandfather had died, and she, refusing to move in with my parents, went to live in a tiny apartment not too far from them. At the time, not married for long ourselves, we had no room for a big dining table in our apartment, but I loved the table that had been where we gathered to eat at Grandma's house, and I wanted to keep it. She and Papa bought it second hand around 1920 after their house burned and they were replacing furniture. Since she was selling what she could, and badly needed the money, we insisted on paying her for the table. She would only accept $25.00. It sat for several years in Mother and Daddy's garage. When we bought our first house with a dining room, we brought it to live with us and so began its role in our own family celebrations. That was n forty years ago. Since then, it has moved with us from San Antonio to Dallas and other Texas homes, to California and beyond to Indonesia. Perhaps it felt like a homecoming for the table when we brought it back to Texas in 1992. It was certainly a homecoming for us.
Last night, the gumbo was spicy and delicious. Sean's birthday candles lit up the room, and our gratitude to God for him and for our family lit up our hearts. Grandma Terrell's table was the altar of another blessing of our food and family as it held our bowls and our elbows and soaked up another memory, another story of family celebration.
That happens in many places, but mostly we gather noisly around the table where there is a sign that says "Memories Made Here." If the oak could speak, it would fill our hearts with stories. The table came to me when my grandmother was going to live somewhere other than her home. Today I believe it is called downsizing. She called it "breaking up housekeeping". My grandfather had died, and she, refusing to move in with my parents, went to live in a tiny apartment not too far from them. At the time, not married for long ourselves, we had no room for a big dining table in our apartment, but I loved the table that had been where we gathered to eat at Grandma's house, and I wanted to keep it. She and Papa bought it second hand around 1920 after their house burned and they were replacing furniture. Since she was selling what she could, and badly needed the money, we insisted on paying her for the table. She would only accept $25.00. It sat for several years in Mother and Daddy's garage. When we bought our first house with a dining room, we brought it to live with us and so began its role in our own family celebrations. That was n forty years ago. Since then, it has moved with us from San Antonio to Dallas and other Texas homes, to California and beyond to Indonesia. Perhaps it felt like a homecoming for the table when we brought it back to Texas in 1992. It was certainly a homecoming for us.
Last night, the gumbo was spicy and delicious. Sean's birthday candles lit up the room, and our gratitude to God for him and for our family lit up our hearts. Grandma Terrell's table was the altar of another blessing of our food and family as it held our bowls and our elbows and soaked up another memory, another story of family celebration.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Birth of a Blog
Blog? The word is strange to me. I know what it is. I read other blogs. But I do not know how to blog. The word as a verb instead of a noun is vaguely unsettling because it implies an action I do not yet know how to perform. But I will learn. I will.
Forty one years ago tonight I was beginning the labor that would bring our first son into the light. On that cold Saturday morning, mighty work was required but then came the overwhelming joy. The work that can deliver words that have grown within me into the light of print and scrutiny may be absorbing and intense as well but with joy I ask for grace in the passing on of life and story.
Forty one years ago tonight I was beginning the labor that would bring our first son into the light. On that cold Saturday morning, mighty work was required but then came the overwhelming joy. The work that can deliver words that have grown within me into the light of print and scrutiny may be absorbing and intense as well but with joy I ask for grace in the passing on of life and story.
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