September 11, 2011
Ann Voskamp, who wrote 1000 Gifts, coined the words "valley wisdom" describing those who have gained wisdom as they have walked through the "valley of the shadow."
Well I don't feel too much wisdom coming out of me right now as I walk the valley. So here's my attempt at some "valley thoughts."
This weekend, today, tonight I find myself thinking about my grandmother, Polly Armistead Miere, and my mom, Shirley Hardin Neville--both a part of my heart and soul and both gone. My mom died in October 2008 and Polly died a few weeks ago, August 30, 2011.
Here's some of my valley thoughts to sort of describe some of my valley feelings....
- It's like all the chairs are empty at the emotional dinner table except for me.
- It's like I have good news or hurt feelings with no one to tell on the other end of the phone back home.
- It's like the phone doesn't ring anymore on Sunday afternoons to hear how my week has gone or about what my cat has done or me hear about the crazy RV trips or Sunny the Poodle.
- It's like I am deafened by the silence.
- It's like even though I'm getting fatter on the outside, I feel like I could cave in from emotional starvation on the inside.
- It's like my clothes are getting older and frumpier because there's no one left who cares, comments, or compliments.
- It's like crying is no longer the exception.
Maybe I'm "Donna Downer" like this because it's 9/11 and I've cried off and on all day as I've participated in grief with all those on TV. Maybe it's because I didn't get my happy pills renewed for over a week. Maybe it's because I miss my mom and grandmother and miss the love I had with them, for them, and from them. Maybe it's because life is dramatically changing in and around me as I walk on without them.
I've called on God tonight.
I've written this blog.
Amen.
This is my mom's headstone in Springhill Cemetery, Madison, TN. My brother, Brad, left the penny--a signal of a job well done
in the world of food servers.
I left the little "I love Mom" pot.
Next Words . . .
September 13, 2011
Up early this AM. And so I had time to sit outside in my Cracker Barrel rocker on my deck. It was my prayer time where I spoke no words. Only listened to the birds waking up, squirrels fussing, and I-40 morning traffic in the distance. I love being with my back yard. It's a sanctuary for me. And so I was just being before God, with God.
I've been noticing my red rose bush has done better this year. More growth and more blooms. My pink rose bush has also done better. But both have been needing me to prune off the old, dead, dried up blooms and yellowed leaves and stalks.
That's when the thought surfaced for my own rose bush of a life--I don't bloom as well when I hold on to all the dead stuff, hold on to all that's gone.
What's dead? What's gone? I began to write . . .
- Except for my brother Brad and Marcia, my nuclear family--Mommie, Polly, Mama, Pop
- My home place to come home to
- The way it was for me at home when I was younger--people and places to run to, to find rest and security in
- My strength and energy and interest to keep on working the "front lines" for all the tragedies and sadness and trauma in my chaplaincy ministry (17 years worth and counting)
- Old relationships like they were at first
- Submitting to the male agenda in Christendom--an agenda that has me being reticent, defensive, silent . . . an agenda that is often reductionist for women who are disciples of Jesus
- Having my own family
- The dream of teaching at a university
- Basically clinging to and giving the most value to paths, people, and memories old and gone
It's hard to look at this list and offer it to God for pruning. But hanging on to dried up nubs of past blooms is not life, not living. And I trust God that the pruning is for blooming, for enjoyment of more life, more color, more rich aroma, more beauty.
It is a good and hopeful word for this 56 year old rose bush.
Next Words . . .
September 14, 2011
I’ve just read in Matthew 4:16 this morning:
“the people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.”
It’s a prophecy from the life and times of Isaiah the prophet (Isa. 9:1-2).
“The people living in darkness . . . .”
“Those living in the land of the shadow . . . .”
My eyes looked again and again at those verses. This wording hooks into my wording above—“valley thoughts” and “shadow of the valley” walking.
For those of us who are walking and living in darkness, for those of us who are trying to press on through the land of the shadow, we are promised “a great light.” We are informed that for us “a light has dawned.”
A Great Light.
Dawn.
That Light, that Dawn is not an idea, not a new program, not a latest book all the rave (and I thank God for all of those things which have meant something to me throughout my valley walk).
The Light is a Person. As usual, God points us followers, us valley walkers, us folks swaddled in darkness, us folks who’ve bought a house in the land of the shadow . . . God points us to a relationship, to a living, loving, adoring, healing Person—Jesus.
Jesus, in all his humility, humanity, and divinity, Jesus in all his lordship, love, and laughter, Jesus in all his acquaintance with grief... He is my Light out of the darkness, my Dawn of hope from a long night, my One True Love in what too many times feels like devastating loneliness.
Thank you, Oh Lord, for a word within the word. For hope. For a future. Praise be to God.
