For the second time in recent weeks, I awoke from a dream that tapped the deep well of sadness about the life we left in Ohio. It amazes me at how long it is taking me to heal and "move on" here in Savannah. Maybe this is partly because we have no sense of certainty or longevity about this place. It seems that there is nothing to sink our roots into, roots that have so frequently been torn up and transplanted. Whatever the reasons, grief still stalks me. I actually awoke with tears streaming down my face a few weeks ago; a dream about returning to Cedarville for a visit squeezed pain in the recesses of my heart. Today I awoke from a dream about returning to Kenton Ridge and asking to teach for a quarter. The people and the place and the energy of a new school year beginning are vivid in my mind, as well as the feeling of belonging. These dreams start my day with a sorrow that transcends my rational thought.

It was in this state that I opened the Daily Office and began reading the opening hymn, "Be Still My Soul."

Be still, my soul; the Lord is on thy side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul; thy best, thy heavenly, Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul; thy God doth undertake
To guide the future as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence, let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know
His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul, though dearest friends depart
And all is darkened in the vale of tears;
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrows and thy fears.
Be still, my soul; thy Jesus can repay
From His own fulness all He takes away.

Be still, my soul; the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul; when change and tears are past,
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

(Katharina Amalia Dorothea von Schlegel, 1697-1768)

  

I dwelled so long on these words that time fled, and I was unable to complete the office reading. These words became my spiritual sustenance today. "Leave to thy God to order and provide, In every change, He faithful will remain...thy God doth undertake to guide the future as He has the past...though dearest friends depart...Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart...thy Jesus can repay from His own fulness all He takes away...the hour is hastening on when we shall be forever with the Lord, when disappointment, grief, and fear are gone...when change and tears are past, all safe and blessed we shall meet at last."

I praise God that the words of this old hymn have reached across the centuries to provide hope, comfort, and encouragement to me. 

It's been a week, but I still remember how he looked and how he smelled as we walked by him on Broughton St. with barely a glance. It's hard to know what to do or say when encountering the homeless. The "easiest" thing to do is just to walk right by without making eye contact. And that's what we did. We were a group on our own mission, not expecting to see a dirty, isolated human in situ against a building. But seven days later, I still remember him. Not that he was the first homeless person I had ever seen, of course not. However, his empty eyes and the dark sadness surrounding him still haunt me. Once again, I am faced with the question of how I live my life when I see a person in such obvious need. I know the things people say--I don't give money because they might spend it on alcohol; I can't help every homeless person I see; What if he/she is a professional pan handler and I am being "taken"; There are soup kitchens in this city; People cause their own problems; etc. Nevertheless, the one question that keeps cycling in my brain is, and I don't mean to be trite with WWJD, but what would Jesus do? I can't quite see Jesus walking by that man whose image is branded in my memory without at least smiling and extending some version of human connection. I find myself wishing I could walk by him again for a do-over. The nagging query, though, is whether I would do anything different. I would like to think that I would, that I would stop and look him in the eye, smile at him, and ask him if he had eaten dinner. Why is that so scary? Maybe I am afraid that if I reach out to one person in those circumstances, I must reach out to everyone who I encounter in the same predicament. I don't know, but I do know that I want my responses to be be purified by the love of Jesus so that my first response is to connect, to acknowledge a common human existence, to see someone who is often invisible.

Sitting in the church service today, I found myself praying repeatedly against critical thoughts, confessing my sin and asking God to renew my mind and purify my heart. I was particularly struggling with putting people (especially one person) in categories, characterizing them with a lack of grace and forbearance. I sometimes struggle with seeing people as a mixture of good and bad. Jeanette Hays from Fairhaven, OH, used to say, "There is so much bad in the best of us and so much good in the worst of us...," but my primitive way of thinking is to see people as either bad or good. Several things about our parish have troubled me, and I had to consciously choose to think gracious thoughts. I was contemplating all of this as we approached the Eucharist and wondered at the effort it took to prepare myself for partaking. That is when the words of the liturgy struck me. "We do not presume to come to this your table, merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in your abundant and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under your table. But you are the same Lord, who always delights in showing mercy. Grant us, therefore, gracious Lord, so to eat the flesh of your dear Son Jesus Christ and to drink his blood, that our sinful bodies may be made clean by his body, and our souls washed through his most precious blood, and that we may evermore dwell in him, and he in us. Amen." There was my answer and my freedom. I don’t have to be sin-free in order to come to God and His table. Indeed, I can't cleanse myself from sin. I have to come in confession, repentance and thanksgiving, but I come trusting in the righteousness of Christ and His great mercy. I will not be perfectly without sin when I come into His presence and hold my hands out to receive His grace through His body and blood. While this does not take me off the hook with regards to a spirit of confession and repentance, it relieves me of the impossible task of self-purification and allows me to come to God with joy and anticipation of his grace and salvation for my soul.

Living most of my life in an evangelical/conservative Christian environment has influenced my life in many positive ways. However, there are some things that I have lost, some ways of knowing that I have missed, some misconceptions I have nurtured. One way in which I have been malformed is the way I tend to categorize people and experiences/activities.  Some are definitely "in," and some are "out." Or to put it another way, I see people according to their buy-in to the particular brand of believing that I have suckled. I measure people by their devotion to my criteria for interpreting God. My thinking is gradually changing in this regard, but it is deeply ingrained in my psyche. Barbara Brown Taylor, in her compelling, "An Altar in the World," writes of the practice of encountering others in chapter six. She reminds the reader that the second great commandment after, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, soul, mind, and strength," is the command to "love your neighbor as yourself." Taylor begins the chapter discussing the Desert Fathers and their quest for community "to save them from the temptation of believing in their own self-sufficiency" (90). She further contends that "most of us need someone to help us forget ourselves, a little or a lot. The great wisdom traditions of the world all recognize that the main impediment to living a life of meaning is being self-absorbed" (91). Without community, the teachings of our religion lack flesh. But this loving my neighbor command is difficult to do. Indeed, it is a spiritual discipline. And while loving my neighbor who is like me can be a challenge, loving my neighbor who is different from me requires me to turn my back on self-absorption, what Taylor calls the "prison of yourself" (93).  She posits an intriguing question: "...who could be better equipped to pop the locks on our prisons than people in whom we see nothing of ourselves?" (94). Wow! This is profound, I think. It makes me remember Henry Nouwen who spent the last years of his life living with and ministering to individuals with developmental disabilities. This has always struck me as an incredible sacrifice considering his intellectual and academic background and experiences. It challenges my thinking. Combining thoughts of Nouwen's life choices along with Taylor's musings have brought some percolating thoughts to rise to the edges of my consciousness. Could my life circumstances actually be an altar in the world, one in which I have regular encounters with souls so different from me? an altar of self-sacrifice, of the lavish grace of God, of a dying to self? I think so. And I want to remember this during those times when fear grabs me by the throat as I wonder about the future of those same souls who are so dependent on me.

Additionally, I tend to regard behaviors and activities in terms of things that please God (going to church, praying, helping people, etc.) and things that please me (hiking in the woods, walking on a beach, reading, kayaking, engaging in deep conversation with a friend, eating good food, etc.). The realization that these categories really do not (or should not) exist is beginning to seep into my soul in a more profound way. I have long believed in a corner of my brain that there is no difference between the sacred and the secular, but at some deep level, that professed belief collides with actual belief. But that is just a part of who I am. At my core being, I am someone different than who I was schooled to be. I recognize the Divine and experience the wonder of worship in unlikely places. And I pray for God's mercy even on those who have not professed the same version of the gospel that I profess. I firmly believe the creeds that mark my faith, but I increasingly realize that there are many things I don't know and ways of understanding truth that I have never considered. This includes recognizing the beauty and value of people who don't believe as I believe. Taylor quotes Miroslav Volf as saying that "it may not be too much to claim that the future of our world will depend on how we deal with identity and difference" (99). Taylor asserts that as citizens of a nation with an increasingly diverse religious landscape, we should pay attention to what Volf says. She further contends that "as children of the covenant and inheritors of the gospel, we might also understand that we have the resources to do so" (99). That gives me the shivers. Another altar in the world.

Can being lost be a spiritual exercise? I just finished reading the chapter entitled, "The Practice of Getting Lost," in Barbara Brown Taylor's, An Altar in the World. She talks about the human propensity of wanting the familiar path. Most people opt for what they know rather than venture into the unknown, whether it is the route to a favorite park or a night out at a restaurant. Choosing the unfamiliar is always a risk. Although some people are naturally adventurous, most seem to prefer the predictability of the familiar. However, there are times when we all find ourselves lost for one reason or another. Maybe we take a wrong turn on a highway or choose the wrong direction at the fork of a state park path. Usually, these periods of lostness are benign, the feeling of panic misplaced. I remember hiking many years ago in the woods of a county park with Carl and three small children, one of whom was an infant. We had begun our hike in the late afternoon, and having never been in this particular park before, we got confused about our direction and couldn't find our way out of the woods. I still remember the feeling of vulnerability being alone in a strange forest with daylight waning, particularly because we had a baby. I think Carl was nervous, too, but his mind immediately went into survival mode and turned to wilderness lore from Louis L'Amore westerns as he playfully scouted for places to camp. As we kept walking, we eventually heard the sound of traffic and followed it to a road which eventually led us back to our parked car. We were never in any real danger, but for a few moments, it felt like we might be. That memory is sealed in my brain because of the adrenaline the experience produced. Other times and kinds of lostness are much more serious and prolonged.

Taylor recalls the pattern of lostness in the Old Testament record of the wanderings of the people of Israel. She contends that in their most famous wilderness travel, the 40 years in the wilderness after the exodus from Egypt, "God strengthened that wilderness gene in them, the one that made them strong and resourceful even as it reminded them how perishable they were. By the time they arrived in the land of milk and honey, they knew how to say thank you and mean it"(74-75).  Furthermore, Taylor figures that the experience gave them the chutzpah to make it through other periods of lostness, like the cultural wilderness of the Babylonian exile (75). Indeed, there is a hint in the Biblical record that God wanted them to use their experiences of lostness to extend empathy to other wanderers when he commands them to "... love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt" (83). Taylor concludes that lostness "can become a spiritual practice once you are willing to approach it that way--once you let it bring you to your knees and show you what is real, including who you really are, who other people are, and how near God can be when you have lost your way... [and] the best way to grow empathy for those who are lost is to know what it means to be lost yourself" (82-83).

I have just gone through (maybe still going through) a period of profound lostness following our move to Savannah. It has been a lostness of identity and purpose and place. There has been no solid ground for my feet to stand on. Maybe this is an altar in the world for me, a place of weakness and vulnerability and emptiness where I can kneel before God in total dependence. Maybe it is also one more experience for me to savor because it will give me more points of connection to people who are facing their own lostness. I believe that is why my son, Jeremy, was able to extend grace and wisdom and strength to me. He also has experienced suffocating lostness and barren wilderness wandering. He felt my pain and was able to speak into it with knowledge and extend courage to me.

But back to my original question: Can lostness be a spiritual exercise? I believe so. It is uncomfortable. My soul seeks to avoid it. Sometimes it is terrifying. Nevertheless, it causes me to bore down deeper into life dependent on the Divine, and it opens up awareness, understanding, and connection with other human beings that can only occur when I have walked in the wilderness. And thankfully, even in the midst of lostness, God can live through me in a life-giving way, touching others with His grace and goodness. I have lived this and know it to be true, which is very heartening. Because, really, when are we ever not at least a little bit lost?

These past few months have been very difficult in many ways with the transition to Savannah and a very different life. I have felt lost and afraid, and though I don't see the way ahead clearly, the Divine is nudging me forward. (God spoke through Jeremy recently in both written and spoken word to shoot particles of light into my darkness.) I feel like I am on a journey, drilling down deeper in my spiritual pilgrimage. I just finished "David and Goliath" by Malcolm Gladwell, and now I'm reading "Altar in the World" by Barbara Brown Taylor. Taylor is broader in her theological underpinnings than I am accustomed to, but my heart beats faster as I read her words. She is speaking my language, verbalizing things I have thought and felt, but not heard anyone say quite this way. I'm on the edge of my seat. "Taste and see" is what the Psalmist said. I'm licking my lips. :)

Lord, help me to pray always and not to lose heart.

The gospel reading from Luke 18:-1-8 was the first thing me eyes saw when I switched on my computer after a couple of hours of prayer and tears. That line was an arrow to my heart--"Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart." This is one of those times that I believe God whispers his presence in my life. This is how I hear God. Like Aslan breathing on the children. And the word today was not some sentimental quip, but rather an exhortation to persevere. God is not bound by time as I am. This life is merely a blip on the screen of eternity. So I must always pray and not lose heart, even when I don't see "timely" answers to prayer and when I lose awareness of God's activity in my life and the lives of those I love. Even when events don't make sense and I can't see "God's plan." This is difficult and requires a steadfast discipleship. I am tempted to doubt and despair. I have wondered why Jesus ended this discourse with the question--"And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?" I think I'm starting to get it. 
Oh, Lord, hear my prayer--help me to pray always and not to lose heart.

Sometimes I wonder if God really is involved in the daily facets of our lives. Does He really have a plan for me? Does He really direct our lives in an ongoing way, or does He show up with specific intervention just once in a while? I struggle with this partly because of the time spent in  prayer that seems to be unanswered and disappointments that chiefly seem to come from other Christians. (Of course, if I were in an area of the world where Christians experience regular persecution and even death because of their faith, that would be the source of my questioning, I'm sure.) Today I'm thinking of a friend's unjust treatment by other Christians and subsequent struggle in finding employment and a son's disappointment because of the fickle nature of people paired with a lack of considerate, respectful communication (an email doesn't cut it). Understandably, these situations have a tendency to throw me back to my own bitter pills of not so long ago. I begin to wonder if God really has an end in view with regard to my slight existence and if He is either orchestrating the pitfalls and obstacles, or if He works around things that happen simply because we live in a fallen world. Deep in my soul, I continue to believe that God is able to work at both the macro and the micro levels. However, sometimes, like today, my belief stumbles. So as I began reading the daily office,  confessing sin and praising the Lord, I prayed that God would show me the truth about His intimate involvement in our lives. If God exists in some detached way in relationship with His children, He is still worthy to be praised. But if He is really present and at work in the mundane (and not so mundane) facets of my life, I want to know. So I read through the Psalms and the book of Baruch, and then I came to the epistle reading for today: 
James 5:13-18

13 Are any among you suffering? They should pray. Are any cheerful? They should sing songs of praise. 14 Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. 15 The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up; and anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven. 16 Therefore confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective. 17 Elijah was a human being like us, and he prayed fervently that it might not rain, and for three years and six months it did not rain on the earth. 18 Then he prayed again, and the heaven gave rain and the earth yielded its harvest.

This passage seemed like an answer of sorts to my prayer. Sickness, health, suffering, and joy--these are the things that make up the fabric of our lives, the things we experience on a daily basis. In this passage, James encourages believers to pray about all of these things and is confident that God hears such prayers and answers. So even if prayers do not seem to be answered quickly and disappointments heap one upon another, I will continue to pray, believing that God indeed hears and will answer. 

White Fragility and Freddie Gray

http://abc7.com/news/video-angry-baltimore-mom-beats-son-suspected-of-rioting/684791/

I've been thinking about this story of the angry mother who beat her son after seeing him throw rocks at police during the "riot" in Baltimore spawned by the death of Freddie Gray. Gray died in police custody. This, of course, follows several other black deaths at the hands of police officers in the past year. My question regarding this specific story within the larger Baltimore story has to do with the reaction of the public. Reportedly, Toya Graham saw her son throwing rocks at police after the funeral of Freddie Gray. Her well-documented response was to physically thrash the boy in public, repeatedly grabbing him, smacking him, and dragging him away from the scene. Her momentary vault into celebrity status was met with what appears to be praise and affirmation by the media and the general public. In this report, ABC news, WMAR affiliate, seems to condone the behavior of Graham reporting that she was "dishing up a dose of discipline." People who commented on the story refer to her "good parenting" and even name her "mom of the year."  My purpose here is not to make a value judgment about Toya Graham's actions, but to wonder why in this case her actions receive acclaim, whereas if a video like this were seen in a different context, she might have been arrested for child abuse (at minimum would have had a visit from child protective services). Why this duplicity in public response? There may be several answers to that question, but I thought of two.

When I first saw the images of Graham hitting and dragging (all the while screaming) her son away from the crowd, my response was, "I don't blame her." That scene evoked a visceral response as a mother who has known the passion of protection and the fear of losing a child. So I think I understood her actions, to an extent. I at least could reconcile a loving mother behaving in such a violent manner. An unwelcome memory of slapping an out of control child in the face immediately sprang to mind. So how could I condemn Graham without condemning myself? After all, but for the grace of God, I could have done such a thing. Maybe the collective public approval stems from parents who know the pitfalls and anxieties of raising teenagers.

However, a second possibility nags at my thoughts. I have not seen reaction to Graham's actions from the African American community, so I don't know what that specific demographic thinks about it. I am basing my thoughts purely on the response of the media and a few responses from Facebook. (Incidentally, my Facebook friends reflect almost entirely a white middle class perspective.) What eats at me is the possibility that this woman's actions in this case have met with praise because it makes white people feel better to see a black woman punishing her son (even in such an out-of-control and public manner) for being involved in protest behavior. Robin DiAngelo in, "White Fragility," from the International Journal of Critical Pedagogy, introduces the concept of white fragility being a "state in which even a minimum amount of racial stress becomes intolerable, triggering a range of defensive moves." (DiAngelo, Robin. "White Fragility." International Journal of Critical Pedagogy, Vol 3 (3) (2011) pp. 54-70.) Because white people live in a "social environment that protects and insulates them from race-based stress," they live in a world that "builds white expectations for racial comfort while at the same time lowering the ability to tolerate racial stress." This, according to DiAngelo, constitutes a condition of white fragility. I wonder if this inability to deal with the stress of race-induced tension might cause the ironic reaction that we witnessed to this incident. In our intense desire to mitigate the angry reaction of the black community to yet another death at the hands of law enforcement, we not only over-looked, but actually condoned and hailed the beating she gave her son. Could it be that people applaud whatever would serve to dispel violence toward the police and restore equilibrium to the white community?

It started a while ago, in the nineteen sixties, I guess. At least that's what they say--the sexual revolution. I don't know the sociology behind the shift in cultural norms, but it seems we have developed an overwhelmingly sexualized culture. This may be an obvious observation, but it goes far beyond the acceptance of sexually provocative clothing, sleeping around, children born out of wedlock, and even homosexual relationships. (In the decade of my birth, these things were considered scandalous.) Yesterday I experienced two things that informed my understanding of how far we have come down this path. While taking an online course to prepare to be a substitute teacher in the state of Georgia, I encountered a good deal of information that I already knew as an experienced teacher. However, I learned one piece of information that I haven't encountered in my fifteen years of teaching. Georgia has a "no touch" policy with regard to teachers and students. At face value, this might seem prudent considering the cases of childhood abuse at the hands of trusted adults. After all, there can't be inappropriate touch if there is no touch at all. (Although, I'm not sure how much sexual abuse this will prevent since most instances of abuse occur when no one else is around anyway.) What troubles me is that this policy overreaches in its attempt to protect children (and school districts from law suits) and concludes that it is not reasonable to differentiate between loving, positive touch and sexual abuse. The benefits, and even the necessity, of positive physical touch have been well documented. (Here are just a couple of sources-http://www.pickthebrain.com/blog/6-reasons-you-need-to-be-touched/
http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0273229711000025.) I remember a therapist telling me that everyone needs at least fourteen positive touches every day to be emotionally well. Since this is the case, what does that say about thousands of school children spending over seven hours a day in an environment that is devoid of positive touch--no hugs for small children, no pats on backs, no high-fives. As a high school teacher, I was always very careful about physical touch with students--most of the time it is unwarranted. However, there have been times when a distraught student (particularly a girl) needed a pat on the back, a high-five, or a hug with permission. Though high school students can probably get through most days without positive touch from the adults in their orb, it troubles me to think of young children, whose brains and bodies are in such rapid development and who continue to need nurturing adults actively involved with them for most of their day, confined to an environment that bans all supportive touch. I am passionate about protecting children from sexual abuse, but that protection should not extend to the point of depriving children of something that is essential for their physiological and psychological well-being. Yet, we are living in a culture in which all physical touch is suspect because of perpetrators who degrade children through abuse.

The other event that I experienced yesterday was watching the latest episode of my favorite show on PBS--"Call the Midwife." I have noticed over the past couple of years that the shows  I like to watch (typically British) have been introducing the issue of homosexuality on a regular basis. (For example, Mr. Barrows in "Downton Abbey") What troubled me yesterday was the scene in which one of the midwives sought comfort from a female friend, and the scene was framed unmistakably to suggest that the two women were lovers. What saddens me here is the loss of freedom for two friends of either gender to express loving, positive touch without it being sexualized. It wasn't too many decades ago (in my lifetime) that girls, even young women, could be seen hand in hand or arm in arm and had the liberty to kiss one another on the cheek without being slandered or labeled. Filial affection could be distinct from erotic affection. Though not the case in the U. S. where male standards of behavior have been narrowly defined, Peter, after visiting India a few years ago, told of seeing men holding hands in friendship. None of that behavior could be practiced now without onlookers assuming homosexuality--thus the sexualization of physical touch. (Indeed, as early as the late 1970s, this behavior was beginning to be suspect. I remember being in college and feeling starved for physical touch because it was not allowed from a member of the opposite sex and none of my girlfriends offered it, either.) This to me signals a sickening loss of one of the most important aspects of loving relationships. Though cultural norms vary with regard to how "physical" people are with each other, I believe it is irrefutable that human beings need loving touch which provides connection to another human being, reduces stress levels, and helps our psyches to develop in healthy ways. When we sexualize human touch, we impose a cultural fast on activity that is vital to our well-being as physical creatures who desperately need connection with each other.

Beauty for ashes.......
Living with my dad for about six weeks reminds me of picking through the rubble of a burned out house and unexpectedly finding an heirloom painting, precious and beautiful, untouched by the devastation. So often I have asked myself, "Why did he live? What purpose could this interminable journey of suffering have?" I don't have the answers to how the world works or how God works in the world, but my soul stands breathless as I have watched how the finger of God has created a magnum opus of Chet Littlefield's life. It is a simple masterpiece, to be sure, nothing sophisticated or hard to interpret. But to see it is nothing short of stunning, breath-taking, awe-inspiring. I see it in the way he watches the birds. I see it in the way he coaxes Sammie to jump up into his lap. I see it in the way he slowly walks around the neighborhood or creeps up the stairs. I see it in the way he struggles to engage in conversation and never gets angry in his failure to find the right words. I see it in the way he revels in my cooking, smiling and saying, "very good" with heartfelt enthusiasm. He embraces the minutiae of life and elevates it to the sublime while patiently enduring his crushing limitations. So I think I understand a little bit about why God allowed him to receive this life's sentence.

When I began this blog, my intent was to magnify the beauty of a life that has experienced suffering. The film Life is Beautiful influenced my choice of a name because I was fascinated by the tone and message of that film--finding life to be beautiful amidst the most horrifying of circumstances.  I have written about my own journey of pain and finding God present in the thick of it. It has become a theme of my life--hope and belief in the beauty of life despite the difficulties of life. My father embodies the very essence of the purpose of this blog--to reveal the beauty of a life couched in suffering and loss. Beauty for ashes...

Where did I learn faith and faithfulness? My father. Stricken at nearly 51 years of age with a stroke that rendered him void of his abilities and life's work, he has never faltered in his trust in God. Though dependent on others for his safety and well-being, barely capable of communicating his thoughts, and subject to periods of confusion and fatigue,  he has never cursed his fate or given up on life. Today I watched him in amazement as he praised God for His goodness and care. He had gone out for a walk even though he hadn't quite been feeling his best. My mother and I had left at the same time to walk the dogs. Of course, we passed him quickly, and on our return trip found that he had gone farther than we had expected. We passed him again, confident that he could make it home. However, as Mom and I neared the house, suddenly the wind picked up and it started to rain. The weather in Savannah is capricious. I hurried into the house, grabbed my car keys, and set off down the street to get Dad. I pulled up to him as the rain started coming down hard, and Dad smiled as he got into the car.  Back in the house, he had barely seated himself in the recliner when he called my name. He wanted to tell me something. In halting speech, he communicated what I understood to mean--Ever since his stroke at age 50, God has never left him alone, never not taken care of him. His "rescue" from the rain had reminded him of that once again, and his face shone with amazement, gratitude, and love for the God who has always shown Himself to be faithful. A holy moment kissed with the divine presence.

Tears well up and spill over unexpectedly as I lie on the couch resting from an afternoon of working on making this Savannah house our home. My mind was skating along recent memories and landed on Christmas day when our children gave us a portable fire pit--to take the place of the fire pit they built for us on our land in Cedarville. That's what did it, and I am amazed at the grief, latent under the surface, that from time to time reaches up to grab my throat.  And then I must walk down that path again, remembering the comfort and warmth that I felt in that place, the feeling of being truly "at home." It was a unique experience, one that I may not ever have again. That piece of real estate was so much more than a property. I find comfort in the knowledge that God clearly revealed to me that we would have that place for just a season, though that knowledge does little to stem the flow of tears when the grief rushes in. However, that knowledge reinforces the belief that God was present in it all, providing for that time a place that cushioned us from the evil forces around us. And I find myself rehearsing again the good things that came from our time in Ohio--none of it was wasted--but I grieve at the reality of a Christian world that forces people to become "other," a world that produces loss like ours. Lord have mercy upon us, your people, and forgive us for the blight of disunity, pride, and self-aggrandizement.