What A Trip

trip n. an act of going to a place, and returning.

A wise friend often said, “When God wants to teach you something, God takes you on a trip.”

Having just returned from a 6 week trip across the pond, his words ring as true as ever.

It’s not like God is a travel agent making all the arrangements, a tour guide explaining all about the sights out the bus window, or the flight attendant making sure we can just sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. No, I think God just loves to travel, and knows that anytime we go from here to there and back again, there is the possibility for transformation. That we will come back changed by our experience. That we will see through new eyes in some small or big ways. That our hearts will open a bit more to the wonder and mystery that is always ours for the noticing.

Iceland was stunningly beautiful. Wild, dramatic, and mystical, one has to be made of sturdy stuff to live there. Sometimes called the land of fire and ice, life seems to hang a bit more precariously in the balance in Iceland. It was there that we learned that my husband’s brother had just been diagnosed with multiple myeloma. Close to complete kidney failure, it was nip and tuck as to his future. Thanks to excellent medical care, groundbreaking research, and lots, and lots, and lots of prayer, the future is brighter. But what is true is that in the blink of an eye, everything changed. Yesterday life looked one way, the next, completely different. Except for one small but mighty truth. There has never been a guarantee of anything beyond the present moment, which means that the present moment is everything. It means that we need to be exactly where our feet are, without knowing if that footing will hold.

England was the location of the “Farewell Tour” for my right knee. I’m giving myself a new one for my birthday this fall, and wanted to give the old girl one final adventure by hiking 100 miles around the Lake District. Green, vast, and pastoral, every day was different as we walked along roads dating back to the Bronze Age, wandered past Beatrix Potter’s farm, and hiked across fields with stone walls built by the Romans. As one friend put it, old paths made new again by our footsteps. Every day there were multiple trails to reach our next destination, and the guidebook was less than clear. Ours (well, Tom’s) was the job of finding the right route for us. Given my knee, the number of trips we’ve both taken around the sun, and the risk of getting lost, it was a somewhat daunting task that couldn’t be left to chance. One day in particular gave us the most pause. Lots of elevation gain, tricky descents, clouds that roll in on a moment’s notice, and the possibility of finding ourselves on the wrong ridge too late in the day. Because of his attention to all of the factors, his experience in the wilderness, his map reading and way-finding skills, and his ridiculous love for me, the day that was the most daunting turned out to be the most dazzling. Our bodies were up to the task, the views spectacular, and the satisfaction that comes when we accomplish something challenging together was worth every one of those 24,199 steps.

It’s not that going off trail is a bad idea. In fact, some of the most magical things happen when we head out on the way less traveled. This just wasn’t one of those times. The consequences and risks were too big. Good to know when to do which.

Scotland was our final and most important destination. It was our chance to once again jump into life with our daughter and her family as she completes her Ph.D program. Her husband (who loves all things golf) works on a golf course in St. Andrews, the birthplace of golf, and their three wee-ish boys ages 8,6, and 4 are getting an education that goes far beyond the classroom. For two and a half weeks we did life together in all its messy wonderment. Forest walks, endless stories, family meals, bath times, bed times, snuggles, home improvement projects, and all the big feelings that life elicits inside the walls of a home.

It’s a long way from home and family. 4,536 miles to be exact. Family matters. Home matters. Their family is there. Their family is here. Their home is there. Their home is here. If they didn’t feel so certain that they are smack dab in the middle of where life is calling them, it would be almost unbearable. But they are certain, and so are we, which not only makes it bearable, but beautiful. This chapter is writing the story that is, and will be, their life. On an afternoon walk, my daughter and I talked about the pain of distance, the passing of time, and the promise of loss and grief that are sure to come. Great love and great pain go together. There is no other way. It is the price of admission to a rich and full-hearted life, and costly as that may be, we will all gladly pay the price.

When God wants to teach you something, God takes you on a trip.

Dancing In The Dark

We take a nightly walk down our road before crawling into bed, and the sky never disappoints.

Pitch black and heavy with clouds, it is a reminder that we rarely, if ever, see the whole picture. That our view is always obscured by our own experience.

A sky filled with stars lulls us into believing that we do see the whole picture. So captivated by their light, we forget that the stars we are looking at may no longer exist.

And occasionally we are treated to the biggest news of all. That it all belongs. The darkness and the light. Dance partners, both are necessary, and only made visible because of the other.

These are difficult times. Perhaps they have always been, but right now, these are our hard times. Darkness and fear loom over the future. In the world. In the news. In our hearts. And most of us have no idea what to do with all of that fear and all of that darkness.

A walk in the night might be a good start.

Photo: Tom Pierson-the light of my life

On Holy Ground

Yesterday morning we parked in our usual spot at the bottom of the hill. Getting out of the car, I put on my pack, lengthened my trekking poles, and was ready for another trip to the top of the logging road. Uncertain of what the trip up - and down - would feel like given a recent, but unspecified, injury to my right knee, I waited uneasily for Tom to lock the car and join me.

I have no idea what I did to that knee, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Swelling, pain, instability. That kind of not good, and our upcoming hike into the crater at Mt. St. Helens in two weeks was looming especially large in my soul that morning. The hike is no small thing. 10 miles round trip over uneven terrain, some gnarly trails and boulders, no shade, and plenty of elevation gain, a girl wants to be able to put her best almost 70-year-old knee(s) forward. Not to mention the fact that Tom is the geologist who will accompany those who have paid a pretty penny for this bucket list trip, and I want to keep up with his almost 76-year-old knees.

I have the never-to-be-taken-for-granted privilege of easy access to incredible healthcare, including a stellar physical therapist. Working with her, icing and elevating my knee, self-massage, targeted stretching and exercises, things were improving. But still…

Tom walked up with a look I’ve come to recognize. It is a look that signals his certainty for what is called for in that particular moment. Bending down, he laid both hands on that troubled right knee. And prayed. Out loud. For strength and healing and ease.

And then we headed up the hill.

And it felt good.

His wasn’t a “name it and claim it prayer” for which tele-evangelists are famous, and sometimes go to jail for. It wasn’t a plea for divine intervention. It was simply an acknowledgement of the sacred in the midst of our everyday lives. Of a Loving Presence that is greater than we can possibly imagine and closer than we will ever know.

His quiet words, spoken out loud, were a reminder that wherever we are, we are standing on holy ground.

Mt. St. Helens—Into The Crater Hike—2019

(Stay tuned for 2023)

My Sister's Hands

Yesterday my sister got a new knee. But I just can’t stop thinking about her hands.

I’d know her hands anywhere, and could probably pick her out of a lineup from them.

With those hands she unloads my dishwasher whenever she visits, makes caramel icing for every family birthday cake, sets the table for a party the day before, and lights all the candles before company arrives. Those hands make sure that the decks are cleared and all ducks in a row, so that when people walk in they feel welcomed, loved, safe, seen, and heard. It’s those hands of hers that deftly arrange guests at wedding tables in a way that no one’s feelings get hurt, everyone feels included, and all the people that drive all the other people crazy sit together. With her hands she holds grandkids close, carries on with important traditions, and lets go of the ones that have seen better days. She prefers to keep her hands out of messy food, but loves digging in the dirt. She always wears rubber gloves to keep her hands out of hot water, but fearlessly sticks them into places of the heart where angels fear to tread. Hers are hands that pray without ceasing, love with abandon, and welcome without judgment.

Yesterday, my brother-in-law sent me a photo of her just before they wheeled her into surgery. Looking at that picture I found myself filled with gratitude. Not just for that brand new knee, but for her beautiful 75 year-old hands that are simply an extension of her heart.

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Christmas Then & Now

When I was a little girl Christmas was one of my favorite times of the year.

It wasn’t so much about the presents under the tree as it was about the gathering together around the tree.

It wasn’t the amazement that Santa could make it down the chimney, although I did think that was pretty cool, but about the fire that blazed in our fireplace all season long.

It wasn’t the call from my dad’s friend Jack Figenson to let me know that Santa and his sleigh just flew over their house and I’d better get to bed, but the certainty I had that magic is as real as anything else.

It wasn’t the nativity scene that we put up every year to recreate that long ago story of the birth of a baby, but that I never once questioned the idea that the Love that set all of creation in motion would want to join us in our humanity.

My childish mind couldn’t imagine that the Love that is behind, and around, and within everyone and everything would want anything other than to live amongst us.

To this day, I can’t imagine anything else.

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