contemplative life, domestic arts, everyday parables

a room in the kingdom

There’s a room in the kingdom where your sisters are weaving.

No one’s speaking now, not after days of late-night talks and early-morning laughter, of sermons and studies and gathered meals. Instead, some read, some write, and others tend their little looms, weaving bands with colors like a winter sky. Someone at the piano recalls the song we sang last night, when the lights went out under roaring wind and thunder.  This morning, as sunshine dyes the hour gold, they hum along, “…all I have needed, Thy hands have provided…” And their hands pray with thread and rag, drawing the weft like hours and days and years, ordinary moments given form and glory by the upright cords of the warp: covenants that neither bend nor break.

***

There’s a room in the kingdom where your friends are feasting.

The tables are heavy with brisket and chicken salad, fajitas and rice, lemonade and Dr. Pepper. The family could have circled close, hiding their grief in seemly privacy. But they know their father better: beloved host, he would open the doors, tell his children to bring their friends home, too. After all, who else will eat this food? And so they laugh even as they weep, telling stories, explaining the intricate display of cotton bolls, the feed-sack, the photograph, the family legend and dear history.

They eat well, affirming the resurrection with second helpings, until, as they house empties, they turn to you and say, “Tell us.” And even here, even in their grief, they listen to the hard choice. Offering no easy answers, betraying no awkward impatience, they listen deep and wide, wide with the love of those who grieved, deep with the hope of those who believe.

And so, having feasted at their father’s table, you find yourself outside, four friends holding one another against the cold. They pray for you beneath the blazing stars, upbank from the river that can bless and flood. Four friends against the cold, and then — a fifth draws near.

***

There’s a room in the kingdom where strangers are meeting.

You can hear the drums before you leave the house, and the firelight tells you where to find them. Circled already: neighbors, friends, and strangers linked by firelight and rhythm. They would burst the seams of your little house, but here around the fire there is room: room to beat a drum with jubilation or shy intensity, room to slip out for a cigarette or a dance, room to join or wait.

Bring your banjo and tambourine, your bucket or pot, your tingling bells or child’s drum. Bring your clapping hands and timid feet, surrender to something beyond your power, something beyond your right to start or end, manage or maintain.

***

“From that time Jesus began to preach, saying,

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.”

(Matthew 4:17 ESV)

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everyday parables, faith, imagination, scripture

we journey on

Dear Friends,

We’ve been following this star for ages, it seems. When we left you at the city’s western gate, the road was smooth and the sky clear, but I confess that this last year of travel has been difficult.  Many nights cloud or smoke obscures the sky, or some obstacle impedes us.  The camels are a sore trial, and even our elder magi have found it difficult to study or discourse from a saddle. To my shame, many nights I have pined for the silks and scrolls we left behind. And each member of our small company has been lonesome, for we expected so many more companions would join us on this road.

For all that, the journey has graceful, even in its roughness. The landscape is less strange now, and we have come to know some of the language, the names of the flowers and grains. On rare days when the clouds clear, the star seems to shine more brightly than when it first arose. And while the cities have often been uncouth or cold, we could also tell of great hospitality, even from the poorest of houses. Even now, bread and honey—gift of a kind goodwife– sweetens my heart as well as my tongue.

And what of this child-king we have come so far to hail? He was not born to our people—or was he? We left palace and hall because the heavens declared that a light of revelation was coming – a wisdom to baffle all our learning. When we began, I feared that mystery. Now, its promise draws us onward with joy.

We journey on, beloved. May you, too, press on beneath that holy starlight, until the day we meet again in a common house, at the cradle of our king.

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community first! village, faith, Uncategorized

being Bethlehem

“You have the sweetest voice. I’m going to call you Bethlehem.”

My neighbor, Miss H, announced this resolution in the middle of  a soap-making workshop.

I laughed and thanked her. I almost asked what a sweet voice and Bethlehem have to do with another, but I was distracted by the potion of lye and goat’s-milk in front of me. Besides, I’ve learned to let the wisdom of my neighbors percolate for a while before offering comment or question. Most of them are my elders by several decades, and all have endured more life–both joyful and painful–than I can imagine. So I try to listen well before speaking my mind.

This was in the spring time, approaching Easter, and I was finally beginning to feel my roots break through this clay-thick, east-Austin soil. It was (and remains) a painful rooting: I have lamented my quiet academic life with tears and terrors; I have missed my students and Chickasaw neighbors fiercely; and, despite coming here to live in community I have been so lonely in this frantic city, a beautiful Babylon where everyone is friendly, but it is hard to make a friend. And yet, for all that, I could feel the roots growing, ancient instincts inching toward water.

And so, in my weariness and hope, I received Miss H’s nickname as a benediction: Bethlehem, town of Christ’s birth. Let it be so for me, I prayed, Let Christ be born in me. A few weeks later, on the Thursday before Easter, I learned I was pregnant. I think babies must always be a kind of joyful terror, not to mention an interruption in practical affairs (e.g. My first thought was, “We live in an RV — which cupboard is big enough to hold the baby?”), but we had wanted a child, prayed for this child, and so we were glad in our trembling.

On Easter Sunday we had a dessert potluck for friends and neighbors. Afterward, I went for a walk, noting all the blossoms on the fruit trees (our farmers have planted over 100 on the property), laughing to think of all the peaches, mulberries, persimmons, and satsumas the year would bring.  Perhaps this is why God has called me to die to so much, I thought: to my career, my students, my parents’ hopes. Perhaps it was so something new could be born in me, in us. 

easter

Easter Sunday, 2016

But the day after Easter I began to shiver, and by Tuesday I was delirious with fever, a virulent strain of flu. On Thursday, I began bleeding, and that was the end of it. To feel, however briefly, so full of life, and then to crash back into the reality of death was agonizing.

For most of the past nine months, I haven’t thought directly about the loss of the baby. It was so early–mercifully early–that we had no time to make plans or set expectations in any particular way. We had picked no names, planned no showers, imagined no futures. And yet, the grief has infected almost everything. Feeling betrayed by the future, I have longed for the past more than ever, resenting the work at hand, resenting my husband, who thrives on dreams and future plans.

But the baby would have come right about now, sometime during Advent. I usually observe this watchful season with a careful and quiet gladness: lighting candles each morning, decorating the house little by little, sending letters and gifts to friends. I’ve done none of that this year. But I have pondered what it means to long for a savior, to cry out a God for deliverance, to demand, like Martha, why my Lord has not come sooner to raise the dead.

I have remembered Simeon’s words to Mary, that a sword would pierce her heart. I’ve remembered Rachel weeping for her children, for they are no more. I’ve recalled the Magi, bringing incense for burial to a fresh-faced child.

As I walked tonight I had a strange fancy that one day, when we come to table in God’s kingdom, we’ll feast on all the food we thought was lost — bread from wheat we saw scorched in the field, fruit from the tree that fell in the frost. And the little ones gathered at the table? Only God knows. We can believe, if He will help our unbelief.

Heavenly Father, if there is a life here for my books and quiet ways, if there is water for my roots, then send your Son to pitch his tent (or trailer!) right here among us. Put honey on my tongue and make room in my heart: let me be Bethlehem, even if there is no baby in my arms. 

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faith, Uncategorized

Waiting on the Word

 

I have not been silent these last few weeks, though I have not written much. My words have been spent through early hours and late, with old friends, new loves, with my husband and my kin, my neighbors and my God.

…in the kitchen, I’ve rolled out countless pie crusts to the rhythm of our tears and tales, pondering together the joyful agony of new covenants: marriages, adoptions, vocations

…in the car, we’ve covered icy miles with hopes and fears for the future, our words blades that makes us strangers again, and  threads that bind and restore

…under the setting sun, I’ve recited the old, best stories of homemaking and creation, learning to believe again as my feet learn the contours of this new, broken ground

…in the morning, we’ve prayed and sang, “O Come, O Come…”

Today, I have no succinct morsel to offer, no pithy conclusion about life or work or the other questions of the hour. Instead, I share with you, today, my poverty: I have spent all my words, and I cannot know what good or harm they have done. I have spent them, and wait to be filled with the full and shattering hope of Advent. I am waiting to write, waiting to speak. I am waiting on the Word.

 

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everyday parables, faith, life together, marriage

dreaming for the sake of others

My husband’s love language is dreaming. The eyes of his heart are roaming and keen, restless until the day they find peace in the sight of God’s kingdom. But so long as that new heaven and new earth remain hidden, his eyes wander, gathering hope in the most unlikely of places, including his wife’s timid and fretful spirit.

The broken ground of this new life means that my own ability to dream–once such an enormous part of my life–has been shaken out of sleep. This awakening has been both hard and sweet: hard because I have realized that most of my dreams over the past decade have been for myself. I have imagined any number of happy scenarios for my own future, but I have not dreamed much for the sake of others. This has been a failure of imagination, a failure of love, and I have repented of it. With that confession, though — such sweet relief. Dreams that once seemed too grand for “real life” suddenly glimmer with real possibility. And why? Because my private hopes no longer need to be enough. The little garment of my ambitions are not enough to keep anyone else warm, but just imagine how much more they can do if I see my dreams as one strand that I weave into something much larger. Alongside this man I’ve married, I am learning to dream not only for myself or our household, but for and with others.

This task–learning to dream for others–is one of the great and difficult works I’m undertaking in wisdom’s workshop. How can I dream with and for you in this season? If you will, use the “connect” tab and let me know on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or an old-fashioned letter.

Finally, if you’re in the Austin, Texas area and would like to continue this conversation face to face, I’m leading a seminar entitled “Crying for a Vision: Reclaiming Imagination for the Common Good.” It will be a four-week series, beginning Tuesday, September 15 at 7 PM. Sponsored by The Austin Institute for the Study of Family and Culture, we will meet at 1611 West Ave. Austin 78701. I would be honored and delighted to see some of you there.

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faith, homelessness, life together, marriage

Washed and worn

We weep because we’ve lost the road that once rolled clear before us. Because we see pain we can’t allay, or because we know we caused the hurt and harm. We weep when we feel ourselves pregnant with sorrow, admitting that we are heirs to robbers and thieves. We cry ourselves to sleep, and the tears fall like rain over battlefields in our dreams. We weep stones and jewels and seeds, so hard even in their beauty. We weep because a new day is coming, and we don’t know what its name will be. We turn to stone, and still the tears fall, washing away the proud outlines of our faces and pedestals.

But sweet, oh how sweet, when, washed and worn, flooded and found, we find ourselves small again, able to glimpse a peace that no dry eye has ever seen.

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baking, faith

tiny oven, full table

The oven is tiny. Each use requires that I crouch down try, often unsuccessfully, to kindle the pilot light. I don’t really ever know what temperature it has reached. And yet: from this little heat-cave comes good food. Even better: we have friends, nearly every night, to come and share the feast with us. Not once has there been too little to share.

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