dazzle in the dark

A cold December morning it is. And goodness and mercy are around me. Dark, dark days and bright, bright lights. Wowee lights, as my son used to call them, when we would drive around to see twinkles on the houses.

One place a few blocks down we’ve dubbed the landing strip. The homeowners there simply revel in glitz, in what we consider overkill. You know where you are, though, definitely, when you turn off River Road. Bedazzled, you know you’re almost home.

For years we visited Spokane whenever possible for Christmas, because Tim’s parents lived there. Snow was usually an accompaniment. The whole town was whiteness-brightened. Twinkle lights looked greeting card stylish. But I suppose the contrast didn’t strike me as starkly there, due to less gloom.

May your days be truly merry, gracefully bright, as we step afresh into longing for that good thing to be revealed.

If you need something to read this weekend, I'll be a guest on Saturday at Arlee Bird’s blog, Wrote by Rote, memoir-related essays my theme. Looking forward to some holiday travel across the Internet!

David's example and the Church (a journaling post)

Most of my friends don’t see the Church. But I've been struck by one of the new things I now believe I see — the Church does not condemn. The teaching is to pray for others. To take time for that.

Of course there are individuals within the Church, individuals like me, who condemn others. That is where I start to go. I am one who begins to lash out, to shrink inside, to prepare my defenses and my battles.

The Church follows King David’s example. He, sinner that he was, faulty, refused to condemn his predecessor, King Saul. David wasn’t naive, either, he saw when the time came to run away from Saul and wasn’t above having Jonathan cover his tracks and save his life.

In the Church, we read David’s repentant Psalm every morning. This is a cleansing, healing time for me.
I wish to conform my life to this kind of example.

My heritage is that of people cut off from the Church. Not cut off from Christ, because history shows His name spreading throughout the earth. This is quite something. The Church, however, as I’m seeing things now, has often in many ways been kept hidden. But always the Body is connected to the Name. Ever the prayers of the faithful (those keeping the faith once delivered) arise with incense, morning and evening, sometimes more often, for the whole world. Condemnation is markedly absent from the services I've witnessed. This is amazing.

And yet those outside the Church fear condemnation and see it as inevitable. How do I know this? I have lived it. I dismissed, I feared, I ridiculed that which I didn’t know. I refused to understand the Church in context. I didn’t know there was a context to understand. I was raised in psuedo-churches.

It's no wonder people everywhere, but markedly those in the West, come up with twisted versions of sacraments (perhaps they’re just hollow versions, lacking the true substance which is Christ). The abandoning of the Church, the hiding, was done by those with so-called power, but the keeping, as if behind a rock while Jonathan spoke to the boy who shot his arrows, has been accomplished through people, by the Holy Spirit.

Take not thy Holy Spirit from me.

Grace is another word, I think, for the lacking component. We in the West don’t offer it to each other. It is fairly foreign in the churches, and that estrangement carries over more and more into the culture. Who is willing to be misunderstood? Who will suffer in prayer for others? Who offers a cup of cold water to another who travels in the name of Christ and longs to be His disciple? Who simply gives without agenda? Who can begin to be a little child loving others? Who fears God and not men?

Some individuals do. But striving for these righteous graces, they believe, must be done outside the Body, because they (we as Protestants) see no Body. In a sense, it was stolen away.

Only by grace from the Holy Spirit may the sacraments be received. The holy mysteries are, as is everything from God, for our benefit. For my benefit. Yet I derided them, becoming more defensive all the time, eager to show up error in this intrusion of a thing called Orthodoxy.

I was right; Orthodoxy was wrong. There was no wrestling to reach that conclusion. It was my starting point. This also happened way back in history. People rushed forward, assuming they carried the Church into their own selfish, condemning territory. They didn’t leave Christ behind — His name can never be sidelined — but they forsook His Body, His Way. That is my heritage.

Even so, I have no excuse. I remained stubbornly blind and asleep. Yet at the same time I am able to be released, to live in the light of the Church’s kindness and freedom. She never condemned me. And I must work with all I’ve got to refrain from condemnation of those who are just like me. I wish to follow David and the Church into grace, into sacramental love.

Brits, books, & bravery (a smidge)

What a place the Internet is. Just since yesterday I have watched John Cleese explain spiritual behavior (quite humorously, as he does so well) and I have read about Prince Charles's interest in the Orthodox Church.

My little presence at this blog has intentionally fallen off. After my start, I scared myself into backpedaling. I did what I often do when fear intrudes -- I thought up an idea.

I know, I thought, I'll start writing a book!

If I got a dollar for each time over the years I've squinted at problems and decided becoming a book author (soon, sooner, soonest) would solve them, well, you know, I wouldn't ever need to write or do other stuff for a living.

So while a published book may or may not be in my future, a smattering of blog posts is likely to follow this one. I return, gingerly perhaps, to the subject I started with: my Orthodox journey. I like that I'm in a category with British royalty and book authors. As I find at the little parish I'm involved with, there are individuals from all sorts of life categories taking part.

This aspect doesn't scare me, though at first it did, a little. It also doesn't make me wish to sell you on what I'm doing. Promise me you'll just hold to what you're doing, learning, experiencing.

The organic, natural aspects in each of our lives ought to lead and awaken us. These can be easy to resist. Artifice feels like it will lead to comfort, and I know I often wish to be comfortable. I wish not to have to rethink my conceptions of others; I wish to find shortcuts to joy.

A new day here at my Third Story starts with a commitment to long, slow processes. Like a prince who may or may not become a king, I wish to remain contentedly engaged, courageously living. You too? 

the heart of the matter

[Read & rewrite afresh on this topic. Yup. You.]

Above is the note I left on a file this morning after my early writing time. I need such a reminder. My tendency is to edit soon into the writing, because, you know, things should become perfect. Sooner.

Reality reminds me that things are in process. I truly like reality, even though it requires patience.

This sort of thought about writing in reality came up Friday afternoon, when I stopped in Newberg and spent lovely moments with Lisa Ohlen Harris.*

She treated me to a gluten-free lemon bar at the Coffee Cottage. Groups of Newbergians ebbed and flowed through the cafe, as people buzzed and prepped for their First Friday Art Walk. Amid the surgings, Lisa and I talked essay work. What inspiration.

This morning, after writing, I was on my treadmill thinking. Jogging, too, but predominantly pondering the desire I feel sometimes to make everything right between everybody. To edit reality (as if I could) soon into every process.

From my stereo came Don Henley's lyrics about processing a break-up. All the things I thought I'd figured out, I have to learn again.

Earlier this year, I began (not a break-up, but) learning again all the things I thought I'd figured out. I toddled into one more day and was lifted outside the latest paradigm. Predominantly I wished all at once to bow repentantly to everyone.

But I think it's about...
Forgiveness...forgiveness...

A process (far from perfection sooner), it is still becoming.

Sunday morning I wandered beside a lake at Tilikum Retreat Center, my shoes crunching islands of gravel between mud-stretches on the road, my skirt aswish above my ankles. Reality was mirrored, despite the fog.

You know, things will continue their process just fine.

So I'm thinkin' about...
Forgiveness...forgiveness...
Even if...

*Here's an interview with Lisa on OSU's Back Page. Great job, Lisa!

Richard Brautigan

Throughout my childhood Dad would speak of him sometimes, using his surname to distinguish this Richard from my brother and from my great-grandfather, for whom my brother is named. So I knew the name Brautigan well.

I was always curious about him, this writer with whom Dad shared many adventures, most involving trout. Now I have realized a fun dream and put a piece of Dad's history out there. Rosebud is a journal I bought copies of over the years, enjoying stories, wishing something of my crafting might end up within its pages.

Thanks, Dad, for letting that happen.

Thanks, Richard Brautigan, wherever you are, for giving Dad fishing lessons once upon a time.

Dad’s friend Richard moved to Eugene during high school. They met in 1951 playing church basketball. Richard went to First Baptist, Dad to First Christian. The night of their initial match-up Dad’s team groaned ahead of time, thinking their winning streak over. First B’s team boasted twins who each stood 6’ 3”, and Richard topped them at 6’ 4”.

Dad’s first thought when he saw Richard was that Ichabod Crane had come to life with sandy hair. Guarding Richard under the basket was easy. All Dad had to do was give him a hip, and Richard lost his balance. First Christian won the game.

The whole story starts on pg. 76 of Rosebud #51.