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

My Do It!

She was born on May 29, 1983.

As the story goes, some of her earliest words were “My do it!”. That, in a nutshell, sums up the beautiful heart and life of my niece, Elizabeth Ashby.

Born to parents who had the wisdom early on to let her find her own way, she seemed to know—if not exactly where she was going—exactly how to get there. Quite a discovery for a young human, and one that would equip her for the life that was hers to live.

My do it.

It was this fierce determination that led her to volunteer to teach Italian to high school students because there was a need and no teacher to fill it. Don’t speak Italian? No problem. An Italian soap opera and plenty of good pasta and pizza helped her aspiring students find their Sicilian footing.

It was this same tenacity that emboldened her to take on the use of profanity by tough-guy students twice her size. Swear within her earshot? No problem. You get to perform the children’s song “I’m A Little Teapot” for us, right now, complete with hand motions.

Because she knew she could do it, she taught one final cross-fit class on her way to the hospital to give birth.

My do it.

A seven on the Enneagram, also known as the Enthusiast, she doesn’t just bring something to the party. She IS the party. She can make a picnic in any storm, turn a broken arm into a cause for celebration, transform a snafu into an adventure, and find a way to bring a spark of light into any darkness.

Being the one others can look to and rely on can be both deeply gratifying and quietly lonely. Which is why she needs and treasures those who do the same for her. She has learned first hand that being loved well means being seen, being heard, and being safe in the presence of another. This is the kind of love that she offers to others, because this is the type of love that she needs too.

Some with her strengths could become self-centered. Lizzy has, instead, cultivated the art of living from a centered self. It is her faith in her God that centers her, and like the Carpenter she loves, she offers extravagant welcome, loves without strings, and turns a a handful of loaves and fishes for the few into a feast for the many.

My do it.

Little did she know that those three words would lead that very small girl to a very big stage.Would call a woman who values her privacy and that of her family’s to live the most public of lives.

From those early words until now, hers has been an example of what Eugene Peterson calls “a long obedience in the same direction”. She discerns what is hers to do, and then goes about doing it. With all of her heart, and all of her soul, and all of her mind. And trusts that others will do the same.

Many Happy Returns, Lizzy.

Our world and my heart are better because of you.

To Begin Again

She was born on August 8, 1953.

Compassionate. Creative. Courageous. She arrived on the planet with these innate qualities in tow, and they are the stars by which she steers her ship, come what may. Always has. Always will.

My best friend for almost 50 years, Kristine Patterson wears her heart on her sleeve, while always leaving ample room for yours. There are more creative ideas in that beautiful heart of hers than most of the rest of ours put together. Refusing to let fear have its way with her, she steps out where angels fear to tread, and invites them to come along. And they do.

Like most of us, life didn’t turn out as she expected. More glorious goodness than she ever thought possible, and more pain and loss than she thought she could bear. Time and again she has had to call upon her compassion to keep her heart open, creativity to make beautiful the life that is hers, and the courage to get up every day and choose to begin again. And never more than when the life she had worked so fiercely to build got blown to smithereens. It would have been so easy to give in and give up. To allow her heart to harden over, her creativity to wither away, and her courage to falter and allow fear to bully its way into her soul. But she never did.

One day at a time, she chose to begin again.

Moving into a small bungalow on a quiet street beneath a towering Dutch Elm, she began building a home in her own heart. The home that had been waiting for her all along. Sweeping out any old stories that had held her hostage, she made room for new ones that offered her freedom. Grieving what had been lost, she slowly opened her heart to what was to come. Sifting and sorting through the cupboard of her life, she held on to the goodness and beauty that still held true, and let go of that which no longer did. Or perhaps never had.

Her hands found their way to clay. The clay became works of art. Each work of art became a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

Her heart found its way to new love. That new love became a new life. That new life became the next chapter in the story that began 70 years ago on August 8, 1953.

Today marks the beginning of another trip around the sun for this magnificent friend of mine, and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate her birthday than to join with her and say, Today, I am choosing to begin again.

Advent 2020: A Season of Opposites

Advent is a season of anticipation and expectation. My faith tradition marks the four Sundays of Advent by lighting four candles, each symbolizing a different theme. While there are slight variations, four that are quite common among many denominations are hope, peace, joy, and love. This past Sunday we lit the first Advent candle.

If ever we were in need of hope, it is now.

And yet, the pandemic rages on and the race for a vaccine is far from over.

If ever we were in need of peace, it is now.

And yet, the battle for the better angels of our collective nature rages on.

If ever we were in need of joy, it is now.

And yet, the days grow shorter and the nights longer, shrouding our outer world with the same darkness that threatens our inner light.

If ever we were in need of love, it is now.

And yet, we must choose loneliness over love as we cannot gather with those we love the most because we love them the most.

We light an Advent candle to symbolize the hope of better days to come and the despair of how long it might take for them to get here. Both are true.

We light an Advent candle to symbolize the peace that passes all understanding and the battles that make no sense. Both are true.

We light an Advent candle to symbolize joy to world and the sorrow that is engulfing it. Both are true.

We light an Advent candle to symbolize the love that is all around us and the loneliness because those we love are not. Both are true.

Advent 2020 is as much a season of opposites as it is of anticipation. Hope and despair, peace and strife, joy and sorrow, love and loneliness.

We light the candles, because both are true.

(With gratitude to Pastor Laura Robinson)

A No-Nonsense Thanksgiving

nonsense: words that have no meaning or make no sense

When it comes to describing our Thanksgiving this year, the words that have no meaning or make no sense are words like perfect, elegant, formal, fancy, flawless, tidy, or impressive. No one who will gather around our table has the capacity to pull off any of those words. Collectively we are worn out, adjusting to big changes, loving, raising and growing little humans, moving into new homes, having real conversations about real things, holding one another accountable for and loving each other in spite of ”our stuff”. It simply feels like life is as real as real can get.

When it comes to our Thanksgiving this year, the only words that make any sense are words like messy, simple, casual, imperfect, crazy, loud, emotional, and authentic. Thankfully we are finding ways to make sure that it is well-seasoned with ample amounts of love, grace, and laughter, because if we are hungry for nothing else, we are hungry for those.

I guess you could call it a No-Nonsense Thanksgiving, which might just be the very best kind.