Quote by Dorothy Day

"The older I get, the more I meet people, the more convinced I am that we must only work on ourselves, to grow in grace. The only thing we can do about people is to love them."

From All the Way to Heaven: The Selected Letters of Dorothy Day, 2010.

A general apology

The Apostle Paul, versatile saint,
became all things to all men
so that by all means he might win some.

As for me, I have enough trouble
just being myself. Sometimes it seems
that I have become no one to no person
so that by all means I might
get more sleep.

I owe you all an apology.

I’m sorry, first,
to you, my love,
for not being more consistently
romantic submissive sweet;
for falling asleep during the stories;
for shining at times when I should
fade; for becoming invisible
when you need me stellar.

To you, my children,
when instead of being a sage,
I am merely a clown; for not
being as smart as you thought
I was (I knew you’d find out
one day); for losing some of
the memories; for growing too tired
too soon.

To you, my grandchildren,
for my lack of bright ideas,
my wrong choice of movies;
for old stories that are, of course,
boring, boring; for not being
plump and grey and aproned and
rosy-cheeked; for losing the rules
to Mexican Train and eating the chocolates
behind your backs.

To you, my sisters and brothers,
members of the household of faith,
for being a wimpy elder—age without
wisdom; for my waffling and uncertain
stride; for a whimper when you needed
a clarion call; for not calling;
for a seeming shrug when you needed
an action plan; for being neither prophet,
priest nor pastor; for my day-dreams
of defecting to the Catholics; for my
restless doubts and clawing prayers.

To you, my neighbors,
for not learning your names; for not
bringing you chocolate chip cookies;
for not praying for your salvation; for
not knowing, not knowing, not
knowing.

To you, distant neighbors in Afghanistan,
for seeing my problems as larger than
yours; for not seeing that my problems
contribute to yours; for not sending
money clothes medicine—or for sending
them as a guilt offering; for my lack of tears
and my resounding silence.

To you, my Lord,
for being so intimate I forget
to tremble or being so busy about your work
I ignore you; for inattention even when
in your presence; for starving my spirit
while seated at your banquet table;
for not looking at the world
through your eyes;
for being so underwhelmed
so often.

To One and all,
a general apology.
Forgive me.

Ferocious deliberations

I just received an invitation from the Lausanne Committee for Evangelization to a gathering in Orlando, Florida later this year, a “Leadership Consultation on Evangelism and Missions.” I am invited because of my “passion for Evangelism and Mission in our nation and around the world.” (Do they know me?) I am encouraged also to invite “other select leaders,” especially those under 40 years old. (No, they don’t know me.)

But the part of this invitation that stands out, partly because it is in bold print, is the description of what will happen at the consultation: “We will pray with intensity, deliberate with ferocity, make friends, form alliances, and bless each other in our Kingdom pursuits.” Friends, alliances and blessings are good. And I understand the part about praying with intensity. But what does it mean to deliberate with ferocity? I picture a room full of ferocious evangelicals, teeth bared, claws sharpened as the fur begins to fly. Praise the Lord.

Ok, so help me again, Mr. Webster. Here’s what he says: ferocious—“exhibiting or given to extreme fierceness and unrestrained violence and brutality.” See what I mean? Strong language there. At least it’s all for the Kingdom.

Alright, so there’s another secondary definition, one slightly milder: “extremely intense.” I suppose this is what the writer of this piece of publicity means. Extremely intense deliberations. I do wonder, though, why the prayer is merely intense, while the subsequent deliberations are to be ferocious?

And is this something I want to be involved in? As a Quaker is it even legal for me to get ferocious?

Currently I am serving as clerk of elders in our local meeting, and we are facing some difficult decisions as a community. It what has become a long, drawn-out, and complex process, I think we are slowly making our way toward some clarity. (This is really mild language, isn’t it? We’re as funny as “they” are, just at the opposite end of a continuum. The lions versus the lambs.) Some of our deliberations have seemed, if not ferocious, certainly intense. Yet our commitment to affirm one another, even when we differ, and together to seek the mind of Christ has held us through a tough time. I have hopes that some decisions lie in the near future, and that we can move on to being the church.

And it has been intense, at times extremely so. But we still love one another. No fur has flown, and none will. Our Quaker/Christian values help keep us in the path of peace, even while dealing with hard issues.

Actually, I appreciate the Lausanne Movement, recognize its contributions and benefit from fruit the movement has borne in the past (for example, the Lausanne Covenant, a faith statement that is holistic and profound). But I do get angry at exaggerated language, especially in Christian publicity. In fact, I get very angry.

But even so, I fall short of ferocity.

On giving a present to a nine-year-old

Not at all prepared, the Big Day
sneaks up and I have to buy
something, anything. So
I settle for a grab bag type
of gift—an assortment
of surprises. Why is it so
important that she like it?
Is this how she measures
my love? At nine-years-old,
perhaps. So I assemble, first,
a stuffed jack rabbit,
its quirky extended
front feet redeeming it
from the mass of beasts
already littering her room.
And the small glittering
butterfly broach, almost like
real jewelry. Good enough
for her? I hope so. For good
measure I throw in crayons—self-
sharpening—and an artist’s tablet
of blank paper, prods to her
imagination. Back home,
I realize I don’t have wrapping
paper, so the plastic bag
announcing “Staples” in bright red
letters will have to do. As I get out
of the car, I fret, “Will she like this?
Is it enough? Can she sense
how special she is to us?" Then
the relief, the silly relief.
“Grandma! Is this for me?!
I love his feet! How soft!
And this too? How beautiful!
Can I pin it on now?”
Such small things. I continue
to wonder, how does the love
manage to seep through?
Happy Birthday, Alandra.

Autism as a sacred trust

I’ve just returned from a week in my daughter’s home. I give Kristin and her family a week each month, to help with the kids and give Kristin some space as she is working through an online masters degree program. The two older kids are in school, Reilly in third grade and Paige in kindergarten, which leaves two-year old Peter at home. So, for five days I essentially am on “Peter-patrol.”

Peter is bright, beautiful and quite a handful. He has already defied a diagnosis of blindness (see earlier blogs), although he probably will be classified as “legally blind” once he is old enough to respond to the vision tests. But his continued quirky behavior has led the people working with him to suspect autism. He is currently in the middle of a series of tests, and the results seem certain at this point.

Autism—this mystery condition that seems to be affecting more and more people in our country. As if Peter’s visual impairment were not enough, his parents now add this to the challenge of raising this little boy. The crisis element of this news has passed, and we are all on a journey of exploration. What exactly is autism? What does this mean for Peter and his future? What does it mean for Jon and Kristin, for the hopes they cherish for their children?

Our family recently watched the movie, Temple Grandin, and I am currently reading Grandin’s book of essays, Thinking in Pictures: My Life with Autism (2006). Grandin’s amazing story documents her struggle through childhood, her social and educational challenges, and her discovery of a connection with animals. This connection eventually led to her Ph.D. as an animal scientist and her remarkable contributions in the design of livestock handling facilities.

One thing that seems clear from this story is that Grandin’s contributions would probably not have been possible without the uniqueness of her autism. It was the specific traits of autism—the visual thought patterns, the intuitiveness, the connection with animals—that enabled Grandin to design the cattle chutes and curved lanes that have made the handling of these beasts much more humane. Grandin writes, “I love nothing more than surveying a plant I’ve designed where the animals are calm and quiet. One third of the cattle in the United States are moved through handling facilities that I have designed.”

Kristin and Jon have taken the position of accepting Peter as he is and considering him God’s gift. The total package includes the autism and visual impairment. This is part of who Peter is. They are actively pursuing resources for ensuring that their son has every chance in the world to become the person God created him to be.

I affirm them in this, although I will continue to pray for God’s healing light to be at work in Peter. I’m open to miracle. I wouldn’t be offended if God took away the autism and give Peter 20/20 vision.

On the other hand, I see the wisdom in my daughter’s attitude, and I admit my lack of perspective. I don’t yet know what God has in mind for Peter. I wonder sometimes, “Is there some way that Peter will bless the world, not in spite of, but because of the special challenges he has?” Is Peter’s autism part of the sacred trust that God has given to us?

So I continue on this journey of prayer and service to my family. Perhaps my best praying is simply being there for them. I’m certainly learning a lot. Already the blessing that is Peter has touched us all. What will this gift to the world become?

Gifts from the sea*

I am writing this on a personal retreat. Hal and I are staying at the Captain’s Cabin, part of Twin Rocks Friends Camp in Rockaway, Oregon. This place is a gift, and this retreat so far has been full of gifts. Here are some of them.

--We drove up on Tuesday night, after a day of work and meetings. Because of flooding, the main highway to Tillamook was closed and we had to travel north, way off the usual route, causing us to arrive at 1:00 a.m. But the forest we traveled through in the dark was vast, mysterious and beautiful, even at night. At one point, as we slowed down to go through a small town, we saw deer on the road ahead of us and were able to stop in time. But as we stopped, we realized that these huge animals immediately in front of us were not deer, but elk. And that there were not just two of them. We had driven into the middle of a herd of about 20 elk. Most of them were on either side of the road; apparently the herd was in the process of crossing when we came upon them. They didn’t linger long to let us admire them, of course, and within probably 10 seconds, they were gone. But what a privilege and joy to be in their midst, however briefly. We carried a sense of awe with us for the rest of the trip.

--Yesterday morning, well before dawn, we walked the beach under a clear sky brightened by a full moon. The moon was setting over the sea, and as we walked, the path of light over the water followed us. With still a few hours before the winter sun would crest the hills, the sands shone in the moon light. Overhead, only a few stars managed to shine through.

--A sunny day in January is always a gift, but enjoying it at the beach is a bonus we don’t take lightly.


--I found the perfect walking stick, sturdy, smoothed by the waves, and just the right length.

--Dragons! The shores were populated by driftwood dragons, some of them vanquished, others in repose, waiting for the next challenge.

--More heart-rocks for my silly collection.

--A sunset whose swirling colors clearly proclaimed the glory of God.

--Time to work (we called this a “working retreat,” not a vacation), pray, talk, read, watch movies, sleep-in. Yes.

--This cabin itself. The Captain’s Cabin was a gift to Twin Rocks many years ago, but a gift with a stipulation. This small house overlooking the beach is to be used primarily by pastors and missionaries, at an economical rate that makes it possible.

 I am grateful and I feel renewed in spirit, ready to go home and face the work I have been given. I guess that’s what retreats are supposed to do.

(*Thanks to Anne Morrow Lindberg for the title)

More monsters

A fellowship of poets

I spent yesterday at a conference entitled, “A Celebration of the Life and Poetry of William Stafford,” sponsored by the Peace and Justice Center of George Fox University and a society called the “Friends of William Stafford.” The conference focused on the life, poetry and peace stand of Stafford, as well as on the nature of poetry. The cast of presenters and readers was impressive, including current and former Oregon Poet Laureates, Paulann Petersen and Lawson Inada.

I feel strangely at home in the company of poets and lovers of poetry. I say “strangely” because I met most of these people for the first time yesterday. But poetry involves a unique set of values and a certain way of looking at the world. We agreed, in the words of a Stafford poem that was read several times during the day, that “it is important that awake people be awake…the signals we give—yes or no, or maybe—should be clear: the darkness around us is deep” (“A Ritual to Read to Each Other”).

At different times during the day, people told stories about William Stafford. I had my own story to tell. In 1992, a year before his death, Stafford did a poetry reading in Newberg. Only about 25 of us gathered at the Catholic Church in town to hear him. At the end of the reading I mustered up the nerve to approach him and tell him that I, too, was a poet. His response was not only warm and accepting, he asked to see some of my poems and wrote out his address. I sent him a few poems right away, keeping my expectations somewhat low. After all, he was a Poet Laureate and I, an unknown.

But his response came immediately. He said he liked my poems. He asked if Hal and I might like to come to his home and get better acquainted. He drew me a map to his house.

I still have that letter, tucked into one of his poem books. We spent a wonderful morning in his house in Lake Oswego, sitting in the breakfast room, overlooking his garden. He read new poems to us, I read mine to him. We talked about the writing life. I learned that he got up every morning at 4:00, sat awhile in the silence (how Quaker-like), then wrote from what he received. Every morning. And he was a prolific poet. What impresses me today about this memory, added to the other stories I listened to yesterday, is what a gracious person William Stafford was. A poem, as well as a poet.

Recently a movie was made about Stafford and the peace movement, based on his journals and including the testimonies of other contemporary poets. It has a great title, “Every War Has Two Losers.” I bought a copy but haven’t viewed it yet. I did see at the conference another movie about the friendship between Stafford and Robert Bly, “A Literary Friendship.” Excellent. I will watch it again this week. Another testimony to the fellowship of poets.

When I returned home a package awaited me in the mail, a small volume of poems, hot off the press, written by Chilean poet (and friend) Luis Cruz Villalobos. He had previously sent me a digital copy, but this is the real thing. His first published book of poems, Breve mente, a play on words that could simply mean “briefly”—and many of the poems are strings of brief stanzas—or it could mean “brief or little mind”—a typically humble statement (like Saint Paul’s “I am the least of the smallest of all the saints”), or even “snippets from the mind”. I know enough about poetry not to ask, to simply let the ambiguity play in my own mind.

I am touched to see that Luis dedicated the book to me, and to another poet friend of his. This is a first, and I accept with gratitude and with a renewed intention to “be awake” and let the signals I give be clear. It helps to know that, while the darkness around us is deep, there is a gathering place where friendship, poetry and peace are possible. Our mandate is to extend it gently into the darkness.