BidaWeNestabon

James Stephen Davis was born on August 2, 1942.

Eleven years older than me, I used to kid him that he didn’t even know I existed until I was about 18. He swears it isn’t true, but I wouldn’t blame him if it was. By the time I arrived on the planet he was off to the teenage races, and I was, well, a baby.

Gregarious, good looking, and the life of the party, he played baseball, was a cheerleader, collected friends that are with him to this day, joined the cool dude fraternity on campus, and crammed four years of college into five because there was so much extracurricular learning to be had.

He could get away with things no one else could. Like calling our very proper, very short, very ample grandmother “Shorty”. He convinced our rather sophisticated, rather neat, rather stylish mom to crawl on her hands and knees across a large muddy field to flush a flock of geese on a cold and rainy family hunting trip. Which she did. Geese that turned out to be decoys. One time in Europe with his buddies he talked his way out of a ticket for jay-walking by speaking in pig latin, and probably took the policeman out for a beer afterwards.

After college he took off for California and built what would become a lifetime career in the insurance business. It was work that made perfect sense for this big hearted brother of mine. His priorities have been, are, and always will be people. He has a heart for others, and helping them take care of and protect themselves, their health, cars, homes, and families was a perfect way to do that.

He starts every day with coffee, Jesus, and prayer. It is his faith that orders his days and directs his steps. Life has thrown more than a few health curve balls his way, and his continued presence on the planet is not only a a miracle, but a gift to all who know and love him. Loyal as the day is long, ready to laugh at a moment’s notice, and a spirit that is as tender as it is tenacious, he simply will not let life get him down, and he raises the rest of us up in the process.

Ours was a family in which he only remembers the good. Any other way simply doesn’t make sense to him. Who has time for what could have been easier, better, or different? He is a glass-half-full kinda guy, and his gratitude for the life he has splashes over onto anyone in his presence.

BidaWeNestabon. For as long as I can remember, he has talked about this imaginary neighborhood where we will all live together.

BidaWeNestAbon. There is something about that crazy word that says it all. Can’t you just feel it?

BidaWeNestabon. We will abide together, our hearts held close in a nest woven of the sticks and twigs and bits of this and that which make up and hold a family together, come what may. It is a place that is right here, right now, and a place that awaits us on the other side.

Steve, our world and my heart are better because of you. Many Happy Returns.

BidaWeNestabon, forever and always. Amen.

James Stephen Davis & Andrew James Davis

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.

Love Ya, See Ya, Bye.

Bob Henderson was born on April 13, 1944.

He was born to parents who had come through the depression and knew how to work hard and live frugally. Like many in their generation, parenting was probably mostly about keeping young Bob safe, fed, and well behaved, leaving little time or inclination to understand the inner workings of a young boy. An early report card suggested that perhaps he didn’t play well with others, which made total sense. An only child, he didn’t have siblings to play with, fight with, or get into mischief with, and his parents were busy putting food on the table. All of which meant that, from an early age, he learned to depend on and be responsible for himself.

And despite that beginning, my brother-in-law, Bob, has cultivated a life lived in service to others, a heart overflowing with generosity, and a spirit that is as tender as it is strong. His is the first hand to be raised with an offer to help, no matter the task. Often called Big Bucks Bob, although his stash of bucks isn’t limitless, you’d never know it by the way he shares the financial fruits of his labor with those he loves. While he may have a deep conviction to a particular view of an issue, when it comes to the human being in front of him, love wins out every time. Period.

A One on the Enneagram—known as the Improver or the Perfectionist—he looks for ways to better the world around him, starting with himself. As such, he is his own harshest critic, which is why he is daily amazed by the grace he receives from the God that he loves. It is that overwhelming grace that moves him to be the first to apologize, ask for forgiveness, and allow whatever just transpired to help him move forward with more compassion and greater self-awareness. He is an old dog forever committed to learning new tricks.

His love for his family is second only to his love for God. His faith is the bedrock of his life, the light on his path, and the compass by which he steers his trusty ship. At 80 years old, death doesn’t scare him because he knows to whom he belongs. All of that can be summed up in his signature sign off from every phone call: Love ya, see ya, bye.

With those words, when it comes to Bob Henderson, you can rest assured that you are loved, you are seen, and it’s only goodbye for now.

Happy Birthday Bob. Our world and my heart are better because of you.

Love ya, see ya, bye.

Rethinking Obedience

I’ve never loved the word obey, or any of its derivatives. They all imply submission to an authority figure, the exertion of control over my choices, and a loss of personal agency.

Not my jam.

Recently however, the phrase a long obedience in the same direction showed up in a text of encouragement from someone I love. There was something about that gathering of words that had the rich ring of a deep truth.

In a culture that lives on clicks and instant feedback, going the long haul for something that matters can be a tall order. My family and I are in the midst of one such long haul, and maybe you are too. That’s where the whole obedience thing kicks in.

It isn’t submitting to someone else’s authority. It is staying true to our own.

It’s not turning over the controls to someone else. It is continuing to stay our course.

And It’s not a loss of personal agency. It is the exercising of our will to achieve something worthwhile.

A long obedience in the same direction gives us the power to hold true to a vision worth waiting for and working for.

“The essential thing ‘in heaven and earth’ is that there should be a long obedience in the same direction; there thereby results, and has always resulted in the long run, something which has made life worth living.”

~Friedrich Nietzsche

Hidden Blessings

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

Hebrews 11:1

The last thing on her list was a patio off the back of her home. Hers is an old house from which she is writing a new chapter, and reflecting on her past and imagining her future would happen best in an outdoor sanctuary in her own back yard. It wouldn’t have to be big. Just enough room for outdoor furniture, some pots, a place to sip morning coffee and gather with friends for a glass of wine in the evening.

But the to-do list is long, the days for sitting out on a patio are growing shorter, and building one from the ground up would call upon already stretched resources of time, energy, and the help of others. As much as she yearned for a sacred outdoor space to call her own, looking out on her back yard she quietly let go and decided to be content with what she had, while never losing sight of what might be. If that isn’t faith, I don’t know what is.

Heading out into the back yard the next morning to dig up some weeds, her shovel hit something hard. A few shovels full of dirt later she discovered an old brick. Digging further, another one. And then another, and another, and another, until an old brick patio, buried under half a foot of sod, appeared. It had been there all along. Exactly what she had imagined and even better than what she’d hoped for, had she pushed to make a new patio happen she would have missed the blessing hidden right beneath her feet.

“Faith is a place of mystery, where we find the courage to believe in what we cannot see and the strength to let go of our fear of uncertainty.” – Brene Brown

Pentecost

In my tradition, today, on the seventh Sunday after Easter, we celebrate Pentecost, remembering the story of the Holy Spirit descending on those gathered in the name of the Carpenter, to celebrate the Jewish festival of Shavuot. The Spirit sounded like a fierce wind, and looked like tongues of fire. According to the story, those there felt themselves so filled with the Spirit of the Holy that they were able to speak in new languages.

There are days when I long to speak in a new language. One that blesses those who hear it. One that reflects the image of the One in whom we are all created. One that offers the message that has been true since before the beginning of time. A language that says to all, you are loved, you are seen, and you belong.

But man is that hard some days.

It has been windy around our home this week, and the sound of the wind in the pines is nothing if not the Spirit of the Holy, reminding me that Pentecost isn’t a one-and-done deal, but an ongoing story that is meant to be lived again, and again, and again. Today as we head to our church wearing red to symbolize those flaming tongues of fire, to gather again in the name of the Carpenter, I want to remember that that new language isn’t new at all. Our first language, it is as old as the wind that blows through the pines, and it is right on the tip of my tongue waiting to be heard in a world more thirsty for the message than ever.

You are loved.

You are seen.

You belong.

Earth School

Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better. 

Albert Einstein 

Today on a hike through a lush and fertile forest on the coast of Washington, I remembered a few things best not forgotten.

Everything and everyone are connected.

While we often live as if we are separate from one another, in the end, whether we flourish or perish, we will do so together. 

Life springs from death. 

When we are gone, what we have left behind will be the ground from which new life takes root. 

The future will always be uncertain.

While we can’t see into the future, walking the path that is ours is the only way to create the one we envision. 

Nothing informs better than a walk on the wild side.

The Parking Space

You know those people who always find a parking space right when and where they need it?? I know. Right?!

I’m one of them.

When we first got married I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why Tom always took the first parking spot he found, even if it was in the last space in the last row in the last outskirts of the parking lot. Not that this approach is all bad. It assures us of a spot, gives us a little more exercise, and is usually closer to the exit when it’s time to leave.

However.

It didn’t occur to him that a better spot would show up, and being the easy, laidback guy that I love, he was good with that. I wasn’t. It didn’t occur to me that a better spot wouldn’t show up. Case in point. Last Saturday we had to head in to Hood River to pick up food from the caterer for an event later that day. Weekends in our bustling little tourist mecca start to heat up this time of year, and parking spaces can be hard to come by. Unless you’re me. About a half an hour before it was time to pick up the food, we were sitting in a shady spot having a little lunch and Tom mentioned that it might be virtually impossible to find a parking spot near, much less in front of Boda’s Kitchen on a busy Saturday, especially since they are located in the heart of downtown. He would drop me off and then drive around the block while I ran in to pick things up.

First of all, this would make things challenging as there were going to be multiple large trays to bring out. And second of all, after 25 years together, let’s have a little more faith here.

Heading up the hill we could see Boda’s, and the parking spaces in front were taken. He looked a tiny bit smug.

Oh ye of little faith.

Just as we drove over the cross street before Boda’s, the car smack-dab in front of the entrance pulled out, and just like that, we slid in, I retrieved our order, and in short order, we were on our way.

This kind of thing has happened more times than I can count, and I’m not quite sure what it means, except maybe the faith that we will have what we need when and where we need it.

As we pulled out of the parking space I tried not to act too smug, because we all know what cometh before a fall.

God's Jar

Last night we gathered to celebrate the life of my dearest friend’s father who passed a month ago at the age of 95. We told stories, ate her lasagna (his favorite) and drank Manhattans (also his favorite), and at the end of the evening I read a piece I wrote a few years ago about a beautiful wooden bowl we received as a wedding present. Life looks different now than when I wrote these words, but they still have a ring of truth to them, and probably always will.

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We have a God Jar in our home. It is a beautiful, hand-turned wooden bowl created by my best friend’s dad. It was a wedding present and I’ve never quite known what to do with it. Until now. It sits on a little round metal table that I found at a junk store somewhere, and I guess it’s kind of like an altar. I like the idea of an altar coming from the Goodwill or a dumpster. It isn’t all churchy and shiny and serious. It is uneven, rusty and beyond imperfect. Like life. 

The God Jar sits on the junk store altar next to a little pot that one of my daughters threw in a pottery class. It isn’t perfect either, so it fits perfectly, and is filled with blank, torn up pieces of paper and a pen. Whenever anyone has something that they need help with, something that is bigger than they are, they write it on a piece of that paper and tuck it in the God Jar. Every day I stop at least once if not a hundred times, put my hand on the God Jar and ask for help with whatever is in there. 

Now, God is not in the jar. It’s not a magic jar. It is just a simple way of remembering to have faith and trust that life will work out. 

 God’s Jar has brought faith to our home in a new way. My girls ask me to put things in the God Jar, and their friends slip notes in there when I’m not looking. I am always putting things in there too, and no matter how many things go into that jar, there is always room for more. Stuff happens when something goes in the jar.  Things in the jar have resolved, grown or gone away. Opportunities have come knocking, solutions have arisen, and cups have runneth over. Jobs have been found and bad relationships left behind. Forgiveness has been extended and health has returned. Strength for one more day has been mustered and next steps have become clear.  

But lately my faith has been sort of shaky. We are facing all kinds of changes and transitions, the future seems sort of rocky, and I can’t see as far down the road as I would like. Rather than walk in faith, I creep in fear. I write down my concerns, fears, hopes and dreams, put them in the jar, and then walk away, but I can still feel the weight of them on my shoulders.. 

Then one day it dawned on me that I might just need to climb in the jar too. Put my whole self in, just like the hokey-pokey.  So I did. I just took one of those little torn up pieces of paper, wrote my name, and dropped it in.  I have to be honest though, ever since I got in the jar with all the other things, life still feels shaky. As if God is shaking me and the stuff in the jar all around. I don’t like the feeling. I feel out of control. And then I remember the hokey-pokey. You put your whole self in and you shake it all around. That’s what it’s all about.  

The Roof Over Our Heads

A few years ago we put a new roof on our garage. The day before laying the shingles I noticed that the roofing underlayment material, meant to protect the structure from weather damage, was covered with the word GRACE. Every square foot of roof was covered from one side to the other with grace, grace, and more grace. Once the shingles were in place, even though I couldn’t see it, every square foot of roof was still covered with grace, grace, and more grace.

I don’t know where I’d be without grace, or where anyone would be without it for that matter. We don’t have to earn it, learn it, buy it, or try it. It’s just ours for the taking, and ours for the giving, and as far as I’m concerned, it covers everyone and everything, no exception. Like that roof, whether we can see it or not, our lives are covered with grace, grace, and more grace.

On this Easter morning, which in my faith tradition is a really, really, really big deal, may you know that you are covered with grace, grace, and more grace.