Epiphany epiphanies

For the last couple of years, I've kinda leaned back toward my Anglican/Episcopal roots at the beginning of Advent. I've pulled out the lectionary, Advent readings and participated in #adventword, the global Advent calendar.

This year the word prompts at #adventword, like "wild and prune," were unexpected. They seemed to connect language from the heavens to my Instagram feed as I pondered and wrote about how each of them relates to our relationship with Christ and the waiting of Advent.

In the midst of it I realized this truth: we. move. so. fast.

There is so much to accomplish, to get done, to do.

As I noticed this, I allowed this year to slow down. I did a little less with and went more slowly in the Christmafying of the house. Some greens went up, a few lights and the tree, but it was all related to pondering and looking forward, not the mad (read: commercial display) dash. There was Advent.

I lit the lovely candles of Advent almost daily and considered ideas from Jen Naraki's Slow & Sacred Advent and some of the considerations from Tsh at The Simple Show. Along the way, I found Advent resources at the Homely Hours, and Sacred Ordinary Days (they sell a wonderful spiritually based planner enticing me into study and daily practices of consideration). I immediately felt a slowing, began noticing and drank in some quiet.

These are my intentions, connection to the King each day, each hour, seamless connection and slowing to breathe in all He's placed around me which leads to the quieting of my spirit. Quiet.

I observed 12 days of Christmas this year. If not making it a planned thing - a doing thing - I just made it so clear, Advent is 24 long waiting, preparing, wanting days before Christmas. And when it arrives, Christmas is the celebration,  12 days of vacating our work lives and enjoying the gifts of time and family and friendships.

Surprisingly, the Christmas Eve service we attended at our church this year was different. Led by our gospel choir and team, it began with Christmas songs and carols and quickly moved into worship songs - deep and heartfelt and oh-so-appropriate for Christmas, but rarely the norm. It was longer than normal. Different than what I'm used to and very relevant to my heart. It moved me, blurring the line between celebrating Christ's birth and worshipping Him as the alive and day-to-day Savior He is. It was good tension. It made Christmas about worshipping the living King. It played into my shift this Christmas. Or drove it further.

So on to Epiphany - the epiphany of Jesus himself, right in front of me and also, the Feast of Epiphany. I chalked my door, asking for blessing - (something I need when I'm off with my Dear to drive my college girl to the airport). And I find myself enthused. Not to remove the tree and the house lights, but to walk forward from Christmas and into the season of Epiphany.

My eyes and heart are open to recognize more of who Jesus is. To grow in Epiphany.

Journaling - a fun opportunity

I'm more than a little excited about sharing the joys of journaling at this all day retreat.

One of our lovely leaders, Teresa, called me on a quiet Saturday -- on my home phone no less, to ask if I'd be interested in leading a break-out session on a book. I'd been posting online about my friend Janice's recently published (and now best-selling!) book - Paris Letters, which I think made my dear Teresa pop the question. (The book is marvelous. Buy it!) After a few minutes, we were all set on the idea, and I even suggested we start a book club at church. That's when I asked, "so what else are you doing for these sessions?" She mentioned our friend Nora would be training on Praying in Color, (super cool, go on, try it) and she shared the sad fact that the woman who was going to lead Journaling isn't available. I leapt, offered another friend for the book club, and immediately shared all the many ideas I have for journaling. I see it as a journey of talking with God, or talking around or near Him, or simply writing in His presence.

I've been journaling in spiral bound notebooks since I was a senior in high school. I moved on to other lovely journals, hard bound (not my favorite, they don't lay flat) fancy as they may be, and Moleskins, my first Moleskin journal is a treasure. That season of writing saved my life. God was busy reshaping me and that wasn't easy. Journaling was a necessity. In that season I was clinging to the WORD, and to that journal, noting all I could about where I saw God, so visible, in my life. Journals? I've got tons of them.

And it isn't just about gathering words on pages, I've actually spent some time honing the craft. When my husband and I were first married, he took us to a writer's seminar through the Pacifica Institute. We woke up early on a Saturday morning and sat in a room where Russell Lockhart, Natalie Goldberg, Allen Ginsberg (yes, that Allen Ginsberg) and Annie Dillard taught us about how they approached writing. I thought I was there as an observer with my writer husband. A tagalong of sorts. But each of them, Natalie and Russell the most, called out the writer in me and gave me wonderful, useful practices for writing that I'm held tightly too all these years. Allen Ginsberg, in his beard and blue and white seersucker suit shared the practice of meditation leading to the word on the page. He had us write and I did after sitting with my hands on my knees, just like him, until a sentence had to be out of my head and onto the page.

I learned the most from Natalie Goldberg. She taught about writing practice. Just writing 20 minutes at a time about a subject or an idea without stopping NO MATTER WHAT. She started a particular writing session with, "I remember..." as the prompt and I proceeded to write out one of the deeper, tougher memories about how the sound of my grandmother's milk glass jewelry dish signaled the start of a day, ready or not. There was much more, but you'll go look at her books and web page and get a sense of her if you like. I still keep the Samuri Editor at bay. Her idea. Her words. My freedom. Russell Lockhart is a Jungian analyst and spoke much about dreams, dreaming and writing. He shared much, but the two things echoing these twenty years later are the truth that a pen-to-page is really a heart-to-hand connection. We learn much. We hear about our core. He also suggested that if we ever want to get to know ourselves very well, we should go away to a hotel and write for 3.days.straight. I haven't done that yet. I'd like to. Maybe soon. Finally, Annie Dillard spoke about her writing. Her style and she did a wonderful reading. What I remember most about her was the suggestion that we pitch our journals when we fill them. She relieved us of the notion that our work would end up in the Smithsonian next to hers. I didn't take her advice though. There's something sacred about the practice of writing. I never really read back nor do I plan to, but, I just can't part with these books.

I took Natalie Goldberg's advice and kept to a wide-ruled, no frills, spiral-bound notebook I could keep in my bag or briefcase every where I go. (I don't write every day. I don't. I don't) And, had a short but wondrous affair with expensive TwinRing Notebooks created with the sleekest paper in the universe. But today? Older and wiser, it's a Mead from Target I bought after the summer back-2-school sales. The pens matter. I like Le Pen or the perfect stick pen with no globby ink or that Pentel .05 pen I love today.

I've also taken Natalie's books, Wild Mind and Writing Down the Bones with me to get that unexpected joy, a writing prompt.

Today, I'm dedicated to two things, Kenton Beshore's method of journaling with the Word and morning pages (The Artist's Way). Writing. Lots. And reading too.

I couldn't be more enthusiastic as I prepare for this wonderful 45 minute adventure next month!

It's a good thing she didn't mention a course on omelets! But that, my dear, is another story all together.

One Word: enough :: a phone call

Last night I went through the endless phone messages that we just don't get to on the answering machine. Well! I guess I use my cell phone more than I thought. Note. And there was that mishap with Kohl's where in the midst of the holidays a bill wasn't paid and they called fifteen times. Note. Paid. Done. Oh dear.

About seven calls in I heard his voice. My wonderful pastor Harold. "Beautiful ones. I noticed you haven't been here in a couple of weeks and just want to remind you, you're loved..." And while he goes on it hits so hard.

The weeks away, first a sick child.
Then a group oversleep.
Then just a week away.
They all added up and they all mattered to someone else.

I felt, I knew, that my little choices to be home for a bit might be noticed or counted. Might be.

My church is going through upheaval. Upheaval is to be expected when your stated mission is to plant 100 churches in 40 years. One and two went by and the shift wasn't so big. Three was painful, my favorite young pastor and his sweeter than sweet wife moved into Compton to establish their church and of course, friends went with them. Friends I love and friends I haven't met but made up the tapestry of our church, their side of the room, their row. Many church plants later we're ok. The occasional twinge of loss is there, but overall, we're good. But then two pastors felt called, together, to plant fairly nearby. Several people, mostly from my service felt moved to move.

The pain comes slowly because families think and decide and stay away for a while and then go. A month ago, it felt to me like I was wearing twenty bandaids and they would be taken off one-by-one and rather slowly. Painful.

So when my girl wasn't feeling well, I climbed into bed and with her and snuggled. Safe and warm. I didn't think of the feeling. I was away. But as I write, I see we became an empty set of chairs. Someone else's removed adhesive.

Then the words: "Beautiful ones..."
I heard the voice of the man who taught me the words, grace stacked on grace. I hear his inflection, his determination, his love. For a moment, I remember how he asked me to stand shoulder-to-shoulder to work and love and watch what God would do. Remembered his reminder at my grandmother's funeral and then my other grandmother's graveside memorial, that God's oceanic love is enough.

Enough.

Enough.

It takes courage to carry on. It takes grace and peace and it takes just a word to remember that courage and love and peace can all be borrowed and shared and that much of the time, we don't even know we're loaning. We just standing there. Shoulder-to-shoulder with word of song coming from our hearts and it matters.

Enough.