Three streams and a place of peace

At this moment I find myself at the confluence of three streams, and the waters toss and tumble as they meet and widen into a river. The Yearly Meeting of Northwest Friends has just ended on a high note with the confirmation of Becky Ankeny (Hal’s cousin) as the new superintendent. An excellent choice. Hal and I presented two workshops, met with the mission board and spoke at the women’s and men’s banquets. God was gracious and once again these two introverted servants made it through their public responsibilities alive and well.

At the same time, we are in the midst of helping our children and their children prepare for their return to Rwanda. So, concurrent with yearly meeting, it’s been a week of sorting, cleaning, packing, running errands, and much prayer for peace and grace. An undercurrent of grief runs through it all. Four years of separation is a long time.

The third stream that chatters and bubbles in the background is preparation for my trip to Costa Rica on Monday and four intense days of curriculum revision for PRODOLA.

Part of my spiritual discipline recently, and a way to keep my spirit centered in grace and peace, is memorization (in some cases, re-memorization) of favorite poems. I’ve printed each poem on a 6 x 4 card and play with it as we take our early morning walk (another spiritual discipline). This one by Wendell Berry keeps me centered in grace, even when I can’t get out into the nature he writes about. It helps the streams inside me gather into a place of still water.

The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry

 When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
or grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

I see you

Recently I discovered a short poem by W.S. Merwin called “Sight.” I’ve been memorizing it on my morning walks. It goes like this:

SIGHT

Once
a single cell
found that it was full of light
and for the first time there was seeing

when
I was a bird
I could see where the stars had turned
and I set out on my journey

high
in the head of a mountain goat
I could see across a valley
under the shining trees something moving

deep
in the green sea
I saw two sides of the water
and swam between them

I
look at you
in the first light of the morning
for as long as I can

The last stanza, “I look at you in the first light of the morning for as long as I can,” touches an inner chord. I now find myself repeating it in my early morning prayers, accompanied by a stab of joy I can’t explain.

About the same time, a Brazilian friend sent me a YouTube song in Portuguese, saying it reminded him of me. Since it’s a beautiful song, that makes me feel really good. The chorus repeats variations on the phrase, “I can’t stop looking at you.” Again, I have been singing this phrase as prayer to Jesus throughout the day. (Go to the link at the end of this blog.)

Last week Hal and I watched the movie, “Avatar.” I had wanted to see this film for a long time and, while our TV set doesn’t do 3D, I was not disappointed. I loved the geography and culture depicted on the moon Pandora, as well as the story of supposed enemies becoming friends. I was a bit discouraged when what at first appeared to be an anti-war message turned out to illustrate a just-war position.

But all that aside, I was especially taken by the way “people” on Pandora express love. Instead of “I love you,” they say to each other, “I see you.” Of course that phrase means more than, “I acknowledge your physical presence.”

Now and again, throughout the day, when I breathe the prayer, “I see you” to Jesus, I sense him whispering back to me, “I see you.” This exchange of love expresses both present reality and longing for more.

All three phrases say the same thing, and all three come from secular culture as expressions of human (or Pandoran) love. Yet they have turned into prayer for me.

I love it when this kind of convergence happens. It affirms the Spirit’s leading.

I am currently reading Everything Belongs: The Gift of Contemplative Prayer by Richard Rohr (another convergence), and he makes the point that “true seeing is the heart of spirituality today.” “Prayer is not primarily saying words or thinking thoughts. It is, rather, a stance. It’s a way of living in the Presence, living in awareness of the Presence, and even of enjoying the Presence.”

I feel the Spirit lifting me to a new plane of prayer, where instead of words, I simply gaze. Sometimes the Presence is so close, sight fades. Other times, like the mountain goat, I look across a valley and see “under the shining trees something moving.”

I stand still and watch.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SUCDyTZsbuE

Wimpy, Grandpa Clyde and our African heritage

This last weekend 34 members of the (much larger) extended Thomas clan gathered at my daughter Kristin’s home. Four generations were represented, the oldest being Hal’s parents, now in their 90s. Each family unit set up its tent on the lawn and was in charge of one meal. The outdoor porta-potty helped with other logistical matters.

We had invited Larry and Dee Choate to be with us for the weekend, to tell us stories about our African heritage. Larry grew up in Burundi during the colonial era; his parents, Ralph and Esther Chilson Choate, were Friends missionaries. Esther’s parents, Arthur and Edna Chilson founded the Quaker work in Kenya and Burundi back in the early 1900s. So Larry, a Quaker MK (ie, “missionary kid”) intimately knew Hal’s grandparents, Clyde and Mary Thomas, and his uncle and aunt, George and Dorothy Thomas, also Friends missionaries in Burundi. We simply wanted him to share his memories.

And he did. On Saturday afternoon we gathered the clan in Jon and Kristin’s spacious living room and listened for several hours as Larry told stories. But let me back up a little. Grandpa and Grandma Thomas (great-great grandparents to the youngest among us) raised their five kids here in Oregon, waiting until the kids were all married and more or less settled before beginning their missionary career in Africa, thus fulfilling a life time dream. Hal remembers them well and also remembers his sense of the unfairness of it all—his grandpa and grandma leaving him. He must have been around four years old, but the feelings were strong.

Hal’s loss was Larry’s gain. With his own parents totally involved in their mission work, Larry needed live-in grandparents, and Grandpa Clyde and Grandma Mary carried it off with flare, met his need for attention and hands-on love, as well as the occasional disciplinary thump on the back of the head. Grandma Mary (Aunt Mary to the MKs) taught in the compound grade school, while Grandpa Clyde worked in carpentry and construction projects, always taking time to train his young disciples, which included Larry.

The Wimpy stories were among our favorites. Grandpa Clyde bought (“adopted” would be a more accurate term) a chimpanzee on a trip to the Congo, brought it home and raised it. Larry reports that Wimpy was more like a son than a pet, showing very human characteristics. He was affectionate, intelligent, and extremely mischievous. His room was the top of a tree in the yard, and he always stuck his head in a gunny sack (his “blankie”) when he went to sleep or after he had broken some rule and knew he was in deep trouble. Grandpa disciplined him regularly, and Wimpy always responded with great relief.

Wimpy would occasionally hide along the path outside the compound and jump out to scare people. In a better mood, he would simply approach all passersby, his hand stretched out for a shake. Those who knew him would give him a hand; others just got spooked and hurried down the path, much to Wimpy’s amusement. Larry reported that Wimpy loved to ride on the back of Larry’s motorcycle, his head out to catch the wind. When Larry would turn to glance at him, he always saw Wimpy’s big monkey lips flapping in the wind. It inevitably made him laugh.

What Larry remembers most about Grandpa Clyde was his joy. Grandpa smiled with his whole face, eyes sparkling. And he smiled often. He also remembers his long sermons, delivered at high velocity, but full of biblical truth and wisdom. He remembers Grandma Mary mothering him, understanding his particular pain as an MK.

Larry’s memories of Uncle George and Aunt Dorothy are also strong. He reported that George loved to hunt and was skillful, keeping the missionary community supplied with good meat. But at one point, George sensed God speaking to him, telling him that He had not sent him to Africa to hunt, but to be a missionary. George felt God asking him to give up hunting, and Larry remembers well the disappointment of the missionary community on hearing this. Thus followed four years without good meat (from the viewpoint of the other staff), at which time George sensed God lifting the hunting ban, and he began again to hunt game, although with more moderation. What impressed Larry as a young boy were Uncle George’s integrity and obedience, an example he’s never forgotten.

We ended our story-telling session (although it continued informally the rest of the weekend) by praying for Larry and Dee, then asking them to pray for us. We have a strengthened sense of our identity as a family, and a realization of how important these stories are. We also realize that this clan has gathered in many non-Thomas born “outsiders,” such as myself, people who have married into the family, and that we all bring our own stories. These, in turn, become part of the overall family narrative. In future gatherings, we want to give time to listening to more of these stories.

We’re a people on a journey, following our Lord, knowing that what we all contribute makes the whole story more interesting, more complex, more beautiful. It’s been good to listen to some of the African segments of our story. Where is this all taking us? I can’t wait for the next chapter.

Sleeping facilities

 Hal and his parents lead the singing

 Larry Choate telling stories

This is great stuff.

Different generations join in.

Simplicity of heart

As anyone who has attempted to de-clutter their life knows, simplicity can be complicated. It involves tackling not only the accumulation of stuff—those bins of college syllabi, old magazines, childhood treasures—but extra tasks we’ve taken on, organizations we’ve joined, the demands other people make on us, and all the clutter in our minds.

Recently as I was walking the labyrinth our Friends meeting has constructed in an adjacent field, I found myself repeating a simple prayer: “You are my life. You are my life.” It was as though God was reeling me in, bringing me back to the basic simplicity of soul from which all else flows. I found myself asking, with the psalmist, “Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire beside you” (Psalm 73).

I felt God reminding me that simplicity begins in the heart. It flows from a life oriented to the source of all life, from the deep knowledge that in God alone we “live and move and have our being.” That’s basic to Christianity, yet somehow I keep forgetting.

As I walked that trail, I began to affirm, “Above all relationships and roles—spouse, parent, grandparent, friend, minister—you are my life. Above all I possess or hold on to for security—my home, my books, my insurance policies, my investments—you are my life. Above all the intangibles I cling to—my health, my education, my achievements, my talents, my rights, my dreams—above all this, you are my life.” And I found myself praying, “Oh Lord, let it be. Change my heart. Keep reeling me into yourself.”

I am sensing that only when I live from the center of a life oriented to God can I move out freely into the world as God’s agent of reconciliation and peace.

When will I start remembering this so much that I live by it? When will this attitude become a holy habit?

Prayer: “Take from our souls the strain and stress, and let our ordered lives confess the beauty of thy peace” (John Greenleaf Whittier).

The very worse grandma ever

Hal and I just spent a week taking care of our three young grandchildren while their parents led a group of middle schoolers on their annual trek to Washington, DC.

I approached the week with both fear and anticipation. We had planned a list of fun activities and a menu of meals we hoped would please as well as nourish. We knew the behavioral rules and household routines their parents follow and determined to lovingly but firmly carry these out. I had even asked a group of close friends to be praying for us during the week. (Am I wimpy, or what?)

All this preparation and prayer helped. But I am again impressed by how challenging it is to raise children. Especially little children. They can be tough critters.

One of my tasks became combating the perception that the role of grandparents is to be on continuous call to entertain, to engage in a non-stop marathon of sword fights, hide-n-seek, I-spy, story books and movies, bike and scooter races, Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, X-box (I don’t even need to try and lose), drawing dinnosaurs, making tents in the living room, trips to the park and on and on and on. Not to mention the special needs of our three-year-old autistic grandson who loudly repeats every demand until he knows without a doubt he holds your full attention.

I simply did not have the energy to keep up the continuously fun-loving grandma facade. I found myself mentally repeating, “You are an adult. Respond like one.” The low point came early in the week when I caught myself in the middle of a fight between the eight- and five-year-old, yelling at them to “stop all this yelling!” At that moment I felt like the world’s worse grandma.

But that was not the norm for the week. My mature self did eventually kick in. Hal and I were able to support one another and find balance, to be ourselves and the grandparents these kids needed.

Many highlights brightened the week, like the morning Paige and I spent building a fairy house. Her idea, this was to be a refuge for fairies from the rain, hidden under a bush and behind a rock. We traipsed all over the yard gathering moss, leaves, pine cones, petals—anything that might make a cozy fairy house. We then made and posted signs saying, "Fairy house, right this way ---->", in case it was too well hidden.

At one point, Paige turned to me—totally serious—and said, “I have to tell you something, Grandma. Fairies aren’t real.”

“Oh?” I responded, waiting for what would come next.

“But I think God could make some fairies if he wanted to.”

“Yes, he probably could,” I replied.

Long pause.

“Don’t you wish he wanted to?”

Yes, Paige, I do wish that.


And I wish God would make me into the perfect grandma. But that may be a long-term project. And by the time the project is complete, you’ll be all grown-up, with new needs and other people in your life.

In the meantime, I’ll do my best to support Paige’s mom and dad, with a new appreciation of just how challenging their role is.

The kids were glad to see their parents at the end of the week (perhaps not as glad as we were!), but I was encouraged that Paige asked me, “Do you have to go now, Grandma?”

            The challenge of X-box  
 

          Peter, a blend of innocence and mischief  
 
Living room tent

Confessions of a lapsed contemplative

For years contemplative prayer has drawn me, like the vision of a mountain stream on a hot city day. I’ve read the right stuff, from the classics (Julian of Norwich, The Cloud of Unknowing) to the moderns (Basil Pennington, Thomas Merton, Richard Foster). I’ve gone through the disciplinary paces, practiced the helpful techniques—repeating slowly the name of Jesus, even doing breathing exercises to control my brain waves.

I believe the books. I accept the testimony of the saints that this is all real. The problem is, it doesn’t seem to work for me. At least not on a consistent basis. Not that I haven’t had moments of ecstasy. I have. But they are short and seem to come about once a decade.

Perhaps my expectations are too romantic. The idea of simply being in God’s presence, without words, basking in the glow of divine love—well, who wouldn’t want that ?! But even as I ask the question, I imagine any number of my friends who would think this is supremely silly. Maybe not everyone would want it. But I do.

Perhaps my imagination is the culprit. It has always been active, mostly giving me pleasure, but sometimes giving me fits. In a typical attempt at contemplation, I begin by praying for God’s protection and invoking the Spirit’s presence and help. Then I begin to “center down.” But hardly a minute passes before the most mundane, funny, or downright irreverent thought comes to mind, and without realizing what’s happening, I’m off on the trail of an interesting tangent. I’m reconstructing a frustrating conversation I had the day before (my imaginary remarks are always more brilliant than the stuff I actually say), or getting a head start on worrying about next week’s deadline. Suddenly I realize, Oh no! I’ve done it again! I quickly offer my tangent up to God, try hard not to feel guilty (as the books tell me I mustn’t), and again begin breathing the name of Jesus. But within minutes I’m mentally composing a poem about frogs to send my grandson for his birthday.

I’m currently taking a contemplative break. By that I don’t mean I’m on a spiritual retreat where I contemplate for two weeks. I mean I’ve put my devotional guidebooks back on the shelf and, for the time being, am sticking with more active ways of prayer.

At the heart of my struggle is a longing for intimacy with God, a desire to hear his voice as part of my everyday experience. And, thanks to God, contemplative prayer is not the only way this happens.

God speaks in many ways, both ordinary and extraordinary. He even uses my imagination. Part of my growth has been learning to recognize his voice.

A few years back God spoke to me through a dream that seemed anything but spiritual. I dream a lot, mostly weird stuff I forget as soon as I wake up. But every once in a while God speaks through a dream.

In this particular dream I gave birth to a little girl, and she was beautiful. About four months old at birth, and healthy. But what a pooper! As I was holding her in my dream, admiring her, she started doing her thing, filling up her diaper. She about doubled in weight (which is only possible in a dream). I handed her to Hal who willingly cleaned her up. He then gave her back to me, naked, and she started in again.

In the dream I remember feeling that all the poop was just a necessary part of having a baby. It was inconvenient and definitely messy, but quite natural. Our little daughter was worth all the inconvenience involved in raising her.

As I told this dream to my sleepy husband, he said, “Nancy, God is telling us something important.” He interpreted it to be a message about the ministry we were still in the process of beginning in the university. Essentially what we had given birth to was very good, but a natural part of the birth of anything (whether a masters program in missions, a book, or a baby) is the mess. I think God was encouraging us to put up with the messiness of the process, faithfully clean it up, and go forward.

It seems I’ve gone from the sublime to the ridiculous, from basking the in silent fullness of God’s presence to dreams of baby poop. The point is that God speaks to his listening children, and the messages take many forms. Some are sublime. Some are hilarious.

I’m still drawn to contemplative prayer, and I still hope that someday I’ll get it right. Meanwhile, speak, Lord. I’m listening to whatever you want to tell me, however you want to say it.


(Adapted from the archives, but just as true today. Originally published in Quaker Life, 2002.)

Invocation of the Holy Spirit

Yesterday was Pentecost Sunday. Although we Quakers don’t follow the liturgical calendar, this has become one of my favorite days. And we did focus our attention on the birth of the church in yesterday’s worship service.

I am posting here the Pentecost prayer from the Celtic Daily Prayer book. The prayer is entitled, “Invocation of the Holy Spirit.”

Most powerful Holy Spirit
come down
upon us
and subdue us

From heaven
where the ordinary
is made glorious
and glory seems
but ordinary,

bathe us
with the brilliance
of Your light
like dew.