continuing the tomato dreams

The dear little seeds of my tomatoes-to-be have all sprouted, and are enjoying the light of our dining room window.

And, just when I thought I was spending too much time dreaming of tomatoes, I ended up next to someone at a dinner party who graced me with inspiring tomato talk. After his home burned in the Cedar Fire, and his garden was destroyed, he spread some of the old garden soil on his new plot. Volunteer tomatoes sprouted, and have been growing for the past year-and-a-half. He'd just picked some of the fruits that day.

Which is making me both delight in the resilience of seeds, and wonder why I worry so much about taking care of these little seedlings.

In other delightful news, our irises are beginning to unfurl their purple splendor. A bit bold for Lent--but at least they're in liturgically correct colors.

savoring possibility

Today, I'm enjoying the particular dreams I've been harboring about my garden. Four of my six little recycled newspaper starting pots have sprouted, and I can almost taste the tomatoes.

Matt and I have been falling in love with recipes that can been almost entirely made of things that will (hopefully) grow in my garden this summer. I just have to wait...

I'm liking having plants into which I can channel hope and a bit of work. They make me rest on God's grace, 'cause I can't make tomatoes on my own.

sleeping, well...

i wish i could replicate Thursday's nights sleep
because last night,
under the same blankets,
in the same trailer on the same worksite,
with the same person i love,
under the same (slightly enlarged) moonlight,
the wind kept me in wake and worry,
as imagined all sorts of things being lifted and displaced.

everything is more easily borne on wind in my
(not quite) sleeping imagination.

sleeping well

I slept last night
under a pile of blankets:

A quilt of old t-shirt memories,
printed, stenciled, and drawn mementos
stretching back through my life,
stitched together with borders
of Grandma's old chenille
bedspreads, which were torn into pieces
of padding
when we packed her china
that cold Thanksgiving morning
after she died

The down comforter I sent to Iraq,
wrapped in its patchwork
which we trusted would enfold him
in the love of the whole family
(bearing Dad's trail map,
drawings of rebar for the house we've come up here to build,
and Grandpa's handprints)
We'd never gotten to share it before

And a plain green blanket I ended up with,
from who knows where.

When we'd arrived
we were startled to find a much larger
blanket of snow on so much of the ground,
which made us more grateful for our nighttime coverings.

How well we slept:
blanketed by nearly-full moonlight,
under covers of our lives,
up high in the mountains,
where we look forward
to memories to come
and countless full moons together
in this home that we're building.

i'd never make it as an ascetic

I have been hungry for the last 3 days. Not want-to-rip-someone's-head-off hungry, but could-eat-more hungry.

I blame it on this retreat I took: themed around "feasting during the fast," it directed my attention toward all the ways food embodies hospitality, and breaking break knits community together.

The retreat center food was fine--and delightful in that way that it's nice to have full plates of food that someone else cooked, but nothing special in the sense of culinary delight. Our retreat sessions, though, were full of little tastes of truly exquisite things: a variety of rich butters, vine-ripened tomatoes, good cheese, fresh bread. These things made it quite worth wanting to always eat a little bit more.

Matt says it's because we're vegetarians for Lent that we're always hungry.

Whatever the reason, I'm trying to like it: I'm always ready to break bread with anyone who might be willing, and always ready for another exquisite morsel of God's good (edible) creation.

few words

i am
tired,
but that beautiful kind of tired
that makes me glad
for this
whole
day

(especially
the moments it
felt
eternal)

writing with pictures

still paying attention to the little details.

i'm thankful for the delightful things blooming in my yard today.

blooming

I noticed my first iris bloom of the season today. It's stunning, if I do say so myself. Plus, our California poppies are starting to bloom, so that orange makes the iris's purple even more beautiful.

We starting putting our old chunks of concrete back in the ground, as stepping stones, this afternoon. Our garden is starting to look more, well, garden-y. (The gnome helps.) I love the things that are growing.

I keep trying to look at my yard with an outsider's eyes, but never really succeed. I have the same problem with our house.

Probably, to someone passing by, both still look pretty ragged. But I see all this progress that we've made. Even some of the bits that seem to look messier than when we started--like our lack of trim on windows and doorways, or the bits of missing siding where we re-plumbed the kitchen sink--are signs to me of progress we're making. Making this house our home is a long, messy process. And I'm proud of our ragged attempts at progress. (My messy garden is SO much better than the concrete that was there!)

Which seems like an apt image for lent; certainly, for Ash Wednesday. To get to Easter, first we cover ourselves with messy ashes. This probably makes us look a lot worse off than we seemed on Mardi Gras, but the ashes mark a pretty important and big step.

I only participated in morning-time Ash Wednesday worship once or twice, so I'm not sure how I feel about wearing my ashes around town all day, announcing to the world that I need repentance.

But I'm definitely going to try to get more details from anyone who looks ragged or messy. They might just need congratulations for making it a good, long way toward being whole.

More little things

I'm not generally good at mornings, so it wasn't altogether surprising that I had to drag myself out of bed and rally to get to the the weekly Bible study I lead in a shelter program downtown this morning. Lately, it seems like changes in the community of residents there has meant difficult and disjointed conversation about whatever passages we're reading.

Which makes the conversations I got to be a part of today seem even more wonderful.

In the midst of talk about a bunch of other things, one woman told about her childhood--about words a neighbor shared with her on the porch of her house. In faithful detail, she recalled the message that had been shared with her: an invitation to a better life in God. A God who has dreams for our lives.

She said she'd never thought about there being anything other than the world she knew--anything beyond drinking all day. As a child, this neighbor's words opened new possibilities. And even though it would be years before she really chose to follow God's dreams, she remembers beginning to know of their possibilities on that afternoon on the porch.

I wonder how many kids this neighbor might have said such things to. And I wonder if she has any idea what powerful memory she was creating in this then-young girl.

I suspect we all have more effect on one another that we're aware of.

Lenten practices

So, it's Ash Wednesday, and I get to bask in the memory of worship on my favorite church holiday.

This year, I decided, I like that it's repentance we do together.

Too often, we waste too much time pointing out personal sins. (Our own, and others...) On Ash Wednesday, though, we all take on ashes.

It's making me feel better--even a little bit hopeful--in the midst of too much that's going wrong. (According to Matt, the world's going to hell in a handbasket.) If we're all willing to take on ashes together, in church, maybe we can begin to think about what it would look like to repent of the things we do together, sometimes without even really meaning to: starting wars and continuing them, denying the worth and humanity of children of God, persisting in systems that perpetuate sexism. And racism.

Maybe reconciliation can be possible.

It always feels really weird, putting ashes on other people's foreheads. First off, there's the worry about getting the right amount on your finger, so it makes a mark that's sufficiently visible to seem truly repentant, without showering their nose with little bits of ash.

Then, there's the awkward way the ashes make us confront our mortality. "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." The same words to everyone.

In my mind, they're words of comfort: we are all of the same "stuff," and, ultimately, it's not even what makes "us" "us." Dust.

And, remembering that we're all dust somehow makes all the little stuff more meaningful--the dust of the earth matters, since it's what we are.

All of which Ellen Ott Marshall said so beautifully in her talk at church tonight, as she invited us to practice hope this Lent. Hope in attentiveness to the little stuff, even as it sits in tension with so much that's wrong and difficult and hard.

SO, I'm resolving to accept the Lenten challenge Karen gave me: to write. And I'm gonna try to be attentive to the dust and other little stuff that gives me hope.

in the kitchen

We've been home from our spectacular vacation for just over a week now. Since we got back, I don't think Matt has taken a break. In fact, he's re-routing some plumbing to the kitchen sink as I type.

Neither of us really understood how much work this house would be. The excitement of little triumphs, however, is keeping us going. Here, I am going to inflict some of the adventure on you.



With our base cabinets ready to install, it was finally time to tear out all the last bits of the kitchen: the walls and the sink. So, last Sunday, Matt and his friend, Andrew, got out their pry bars and went at it. (I took my obligatory Sunday nap. Believe me--it's better for us all.)



We figured that now's a good time to switch out the nasty old window (not old enough to be really cool--just cheap and old) for a new one. When the crappy old window was installed, some creative and not very effective plumbing was done--making the vent pipe an imaginary vent pipe through the window. Someone just severed it, installed a new window, and called it good.



We also discovered, in removing the wallboard, that the wall was mostly gone, thanks to old termite damage and what appears to have been several floods under the kitchen sink. So, a bit of re-framing was in order. Here's Matt with the wall really gone, and a new view of the street.



Building the new wall took us well past dark. By dark, we called in for reinforcements. But doesn't the new wall look, well...stable?



That was on Monday. On Tuesday, wallboard went up. Then Matt's dad came over to install the beautiful cabinets he built (out of reclaimed lumber!). Electricity and some paint and a new dishwasher and temporary countertops...and, finally, a sink!

Here's the kitchen as it's currently assembled. We're looking forward to being able to enjoy. And Matt's started building the forms for the new concrete countertop.

Someday, before too long, we hope we'll be able to be better dinner hosts. And have more time to spend with our friends (doing something other than construction work).

letting the aloha live

We're just back from a splendid, luxurious TWO WEEK vacation in Hawaii. The length, the ocean, the pineapples and the company were all splendid.

Growing up in Nebraska, my sense of Hawaii lacked nuance. It just enchanted me with dreamy pictures of swaying palm trees and tropical ocean scenery.

Now, I can distinguish the difference between Waikiki's urbanized and developed strip of hotels and the rural coffee fields of the big island.

In disbelief at the number of ABC convenience stores in Waikiki, Matt and I decided to count them on our walk back from dinner one night. It was a pleasant stroll--less than a mile. And, we passed 11 ABC stores (plus, one that was about to open in a new shopping mall). More incredible to us, though, was that we passed 3 Coach stores. (And knew that if we walked further, we'd find another one a block later.) We picked Coach to count, but there were other choices for fine handbag purchasing... It occurred to me, in one unfolding walk, that many people must vacation with purposes other than seeing swaying palm trees. But I'm still incredulous that THAT many people buy expensive handbags on vacation.

As for me, I'm especially grateful for some sea turtles, 2 whales off the big island coast, spectacular waves on the North Shore, and one exquisite sunset (which we enjoyed from an indulgent Waikiki hotel beach cafe). And for my dear husband, and his family, who we got to hang with during our time away from Oahu.

the exquisite sunset

the turtles

our family portrait at volcanoes national park

I bought no Coach handbags.

I did, however, feel a growing sense of connection between my Nebraska roots and the Hawaiian soil. My favorite local big island station played songs that, while also borrowing from reggae and using more ukelele, felt distinctively like country music. Turns out, there've been cowboys on Hawaii for years. And folks who go "big pig hunting," and sing songs about it.

Who knew?

sort-of like walking on water

When Matt and I were back in Nebraska this week, celebrating Christmas, we went canoeing on Mom and Dad's lake. (Dad steered and egged on.) We thought it was less frozen than it really was. (Thin layers of melted water on top of ice can be deceiving.) There's a lesson in this somewhere, but I'm on vacation and I haven't figured it out yet.

















It sure was pretty, though, watching the sunset colors reflect off the narrow channel the canoe cut through the ice...


In other news, Grand Island, Nebraska now, apparently, has a Starbucks. (We didn't visit.) And Wal-Mart's litter can be found even in out-of-town cornfields. There's a commentary in this somewhere, and I think you can figure it out yourself.












Now, we're leaving the ice and canoes behind for some pineapples and tropical breezes...

the hokey pokey isn't what christmas is all about

With apologies to Karen for stealin' her idea, I wanted to share this with you:


Merry Christmas.

a long night

And a confession: I thought that tonight is the longest night of the year. But, it turns out, tomorrow night is a smidgen longer.

At least, tomorrow's daylight is 2 seconds shorter than today's.

Tonight, at our Vespers worship, I said it was the longest night.

What I didn't notice, at all, is that there's a new moon tonight. (And, really, how's one to notice a new moon? Especially when there are so many giant inflatable snow creatures around, basking under palm trees?!?) A new moon makes things feel extra dark, and long. Maybe it's the "darkest night..."

However...I marvel at the information available online. Sunrises and sunsets, daylight hours, tides and moon phases.

Seems funny to me that we can measure the change in season--the solstice--in 2 second increments. I wonder if change happens that way in my life more often. If I've passed tipping points, but hardly noticed, because 2 seconds are so, well, small.

And I think that perhaps Christmas is that way. God's love is incarnate in a new, wonderful, full (if physically small) way, and it barely registers (other than for that group of shepherds, some angels and a small entourage of magi.)

This year, when I'm aware of so many broken, hurting, violence-filled places and lives, I'm hanging on to those 2 seconds.

home for the holidays

Matt has this lovely salt water aquarium in our living room, and in it live two clown fish. They're actually our friend Ryan's fish, but they live at our house.

From "Finding Nemo," I know that clown fish are supposed to live in anemones. We don't have any anemones.

To my endless delight, our two clown fish are attempting to take up residence in two nearby corals.

Corals are not nearly as delightful to live in as anemones, I think; one has wavy arm things that might be fun to swim through, but no inner chamber in which to take refuge. The other coral... Well, it just seems to scream "sub-standard" housing to me. It's got nothin' much going for it, other than that it's pretty. No place to get inside, nothing to swim through.

But, day after day, Jackie and Nighty, the clown fish, loyally, hopefully stand by their homes. As if to guard them, and to show them off the world of our living room.

They give me hope that we can make "home" out of just about anything, if we have eyes to see.

(Not, of course, that this is any reason to stop working to make sure everyone has a decent place to live...)

ever since those angels sang "alleluia"...

Today's RevGalPals Friday Five has me singin'. And thinking: why don't we have much other "seasonal" music? I mean, sure, JCSuperstar comes out Holy Week...but I've got no other collection of music that I pull out for a month of the year. What fun!

1. A favorite 'secular' Christmas song.
"Baby, It's Cold Outside" charms me, though I worry when I stop to think about the lyrics much. (manipulative male convincing sweet, wanting-to-please-other-people woman into staying at his place?!?) It makes me think of that song, "To Make You Feel My Love;" when sung by Garth Brooks to accompany Harry Connick's love in "Hope Floats," it was sweet. In Bob Dylan's voice, it just sounded, well, predatory...

2. Christmas song that chokes you up (maybe even in spite of yourself--the cheesier the better)
My heart belongs to John Denver and those Muppets. I can't avoid getting choked up "When the River Meets the Sea," as little Robin's pure voice sings out a vision of God's kingdom.

3. Christmas song that makes you want to stuff your ears with chestnuts roasted on an open fire.
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, especially the Mannheim Steamroller version. (Sorry, Mom; couldn't resist.)

4. The Twelve Days of Christmas: is there *any* redeeming value to that song? Discuss.
Again, with the Muppets, it's all beautiful. Piggy even makes appropriate mockery of greed with her "5 Golden Rings." Beautiful.


5. A favorite Christmas album
Has to be "A Christmas Together." John Denver AND the Muppets! What could be better?!?!?

sacraments AND advent light

I know we're not to "joy" Sunday yet (and, don't worry: the pink candle remains unlit) BUT I'm grateful for the joy of the Lord tonight. Tonight, I got to serve Communion to a whole bunch of families, including a lot of little kids. I'm not quite sure how to explain how it is that the body and blood of Christ can be so good to share, but it sure felt good to share this sacrament of our church, up at the altar in our dramatic sanctuary, with lots of little people. With big eyes, and tenuous hands, they reached out for those wafers, and got a taste of this sign of God's grace. Watching mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers (and many assorted honorary aunties and uncles) share in this holy meal was incredible. The sense of expectation, the joy, the tangible, mysterious holiness--this is why I love communion.

And, I kept thinking about the little girl whose funeral I'm to lead tomorrow. The life of each of those children seemed so precious and wonderful. I'm intensely grateful to get to share this sign of God with all those kids tonight. Not that I think communion is necessary for salvation. It's just awfully beautiful.

advent light

So, in an odd side-bar comment during our staff meeting today, I became intrigued with how the pink candle got to be in our Advent wreaths. (And, I have to say, my curiosity was encouraged by the RevGalPals Friday Five contest last week, to give a new reason for the odd pink candle. I didn't post, but my best idea, I think, was that it stands as a sort of "minority report," insisting that we don't all think/look/believe the same. There's no expectation that the lone pink candle will become purple, but it still has a clear place in the wreath. But I digress...)

From a bit of internet searching, I found 2 possibilities intriguing:

-The whole Advent wreath thing has its roots in pre-Christian (read: pagan) Germany. A getting-ready-of-the-solstice ritual of lighting more candles, to get us through this darkness until that day when the night will begin to grow shorter.

-The pink color probably snuck in through Lent and the Pope. Several sites claim this. Apparently, purple went with Lent before it went with Advent (back in the day, when Lent was the only real liturgical "season." And, during that long season of penitence, folks still wanted to remember that even the suffering of crucifixion isn't horrible. (After all, it led to resurrection!) So, on the third (or fourth) Sunday, folks were supposed to give up the fast for a day of feasting. And, the Pope would give a rose to a citizen on that day. The rose inspired priests to start wearing pink. Then, when purple was applied to Advent (which used to have a lot more penitenece and considerably less shopping), the pink came along, too, on Sunday 3.

Now, we just get the joy (without too much penitence). But as far as I've experienced, we don't get so much feasting during Lent...

In other advent news, I've been thinking about the lights on trees in the middle of El Cajon Boulevard near our house. Someone too the care to wrap the lower limbs of a whole bunch of trees in strings of white lights. Trouble is, at least 3/4 of the bulbs are not working. Which makes the effort my current favorite Advent display. Finally, someone got it right--just a few twinkling lights, holding out what may seem like futile hope that God will come to the world and it will mean everything.

sacraments

I spent part of this afternoon with a young mother at a funeral home, as she spent time with her would-be six-year-old daughter, who was killed in a car accident last week.

She had questions for me about baptism: her daughter hadn't been baptized, and she was concerned.

I told her that we didn't baptize people after death, but that we believe God's grace is present even without baptism. Not being baptized is not going to keep her daughter away from being received into God's eternal love.

Then, her family showed up, and it was clear that they were much more worried about her unbaptized state. (They had not been, however, worried enough to show up much while she was alive.)

All of which made me think that our sacrament of baptism has become so enmeshed with doctrines and policies that we've missed at least part of the point of what God's Spirit and water are able to accomplish. This Sunday, as we read about John the Baptist in our Advent preparations, we're invited to be repent, and be baptized. But I don't think he was talking about the same thing that worried those family members. I think he was inviting us to something much more radical.

The child's mother, however, continued to share the kind of love that is lived out in a million, tiny details. She painted her daughter's fingernails a shade of a shiny pink that would have delighted her.

Which seemed, somehow, to convey the amazing and beautiful qualities of God's love in a richly sacramental way.