On this Good Friday, the sun is out. There is a soft breeze blowing through the grass and trees surrounding my deck. There is a hint of the ocean on that breeze, which fills my senses as I breathe in deeply. Birds call out to one another, lizards with bright blue bellies skitter by, Grace’s bright red hammock blows gently down at the bottom of the yard, surrounded by grass so tall, the tops of the blades are now soft and pink and flowered like stalks of wheat, swaying this way and that, this way and that.
On this Good Friday, I am out on my deck and not at my desk. Good Friday is a stock market holiday, which means I don’t work today. The phones are silent, the madness of the emails and the finances and the scheduling is stilled, the futures have frozen in time and I am free to just be. To not think, to not deliberate, to not act or worry about acting or worry about making eye contact with people, which will create a connection, which will lead to expectations, including the expectation of acting. Once acted, there is no unacting. Once acted, the future has forever been altered. But today, the stock market is closed, which means no futures are being altered.
I am free to unact.
I am free to be still.
There is nothing to do except be and listen as every individual blade of grass that blankets my yard, along with the leaves in the surrounding trees, blow together, beating against one another gently, in a quiet symphony of stillness, while the expectation of what is to come grows.
On this Good Friday, I remember last night’s stripping of the altar and the darkness that followed. The instituting of the holy sacrament of Christ’s body and blood, the command to love one another, then the betrayal, the loneliness in the garden, and the arrival at this day. This day we call Good Friday.
On this Good Friday, I remember this morning’s prayer time, in a sanctuary with a stripped altar and a cross veiled in black. There is no cross to acknowledge, no sign of the cross being made, no beauty and no song. My body wants to do the familiar movements that have become a part of my very being. Denying myself these comforts makes me realize how much I long for them. We hear the story of Christ’s passion and the denial jumps out at me at this end of the season of Lent; this season of denial, these very days of denial.
He said he would be with us always, even unto the very end of the age.
And so we wait.
Just a quick post here to share my daughter’s new blog and latest music: Sadie’s Blog
You may read her latest post about the song that is linked here.
I always have a hard time writing as Lent draws to a close, but this sums it up for me so well. Thank you, dear daughters of mine, for giving life to your mama. And thank you for being home to one another.
1. On March 21, 1992, you and I were married. I wore an ornate dress with millions of beads and miles of lace and a long train and puffy sleeves, because that’s what we did in the 90’s. You had an almost completely shaved head because a few days before our wedding, you were walking around your house, shaving with an electric razor when you tripped, making the razor go straight up the side of your head, which meant you had to shave all your hair off in order to make it blend in with the completely vertical stripe. We had three bridesmaids and three groomsmen, two potted plants, and one unity candle. My brothers walked me down the aisle, one on each arm, because my dad was the pastor who married us. Six of our grandparents were in town, although your grandma had fallen the night before the wedding and was in the hospital with a broken hip. We sang our vows to one another, we danced our first dance while my grandpa played guitar, then we fed cake to each other and got the heck outta that place, driving across Klamath Falls, Oregon to our hotel room that night with the horn blaring the entire time, thanks to your ingenious friends who hooked the headlights up to the horn. We were young and skinny and full of hope for the future, and we loved being on our honeymoon knowing that our parents had no idea where we were and we didn’t have to check in with them. It was just you and I for three days, on the beach in Oregon, and it was beautiful.
2. Oh yeah. We were bad. But you were actually a little badder than me with that denim jacket over a denim shirt over a white tee, driving all over the big D while I threw down peace signs with the best of the gangstas.
3. And then Callie came along and I thought my heart would explode right out of my chest as all the love I had for you multiplied into five thousand square roots of itself. You and I would get down on the floor every night after she went to bed, imitating everything she had done that day. It was the best entertainment ever. We cracked ourselves up big time.
4. And then came Sadie, who opened up our world to sisters… something neither you nor I had ever known. And all the particles of the universe came together in our little family as we grew in love and tried to spread some of that love outside of ourselves as well.
6. When we weren’t in Mexico, we were working the home office of the mission in Dallas, where I would spend hours trying to explain to you the ins and outs of MS-DOS commands on ridiculously large computers. Just kidding. I don’t even know any MS-DOS commands. I don’t know what the heck is going on in this picture.
7. When you weren’t in Mexico or at the office or down on the floor imitating our hilarious children, you were going to Bible College, which you finished in only seven years with a real-live degree. That was a happy day. I was especially happy (although Sadie really looks the happiest here since she obviously just ate chocolate) because it meant you were done with school FOREVER.
8. By the time Grace came along, we had the whole birth and labor thing down so good, we decided that this time you would be the one to have the contractions while I applied the counter pressure to your back.
9. Life was pretty good during those crazy early years. Actually, there was a lot of hardness in there too. But the beauty of pictures is that they help you remember the goodness. And there was truly oh so very much goodness. Our dimpled little third girl stole our hearts in new ways and our love continued to grow deeper.
11. Our little family of five drove all over this country and the next in the 15-passenger van that was the only family vehicle we had really ever known. It was honestly a lot of hard work, those years as missionaries. But in the hard work, we all learned and grew in immeasurable ways.
13. Somewhere in there, our work expanded to places our 15-passenger van couldn’t drive and we began the process of trying to go full time to Eastern Europe. Somewhere on a hill in Kosovo, someone stole a picture of us stealing a moment.
14. And then one day, we took the leap right out of missionary life and into whatever might be out there. It’s funny now that it seemed so terrifying then. It seems that most people would have been terrified to think of being missionaries. But I think you and I were scared to stop. It was truly a leap of faith and we didn’t know where we would land, but we jumped together. You more, straight down and me wild and flailing, but with a calm exterior.
18. Once upon a time, we even got some fully-fledged teenagers who just didn’t think we were quite as hilarious as we considered ourselves to be. But you, eating a hot dog during a family photo shoot, and purposely smearing the mustard on your nose, while smiling with half-crossed eyes… I find that hilarious and probably always will.
19. Laying in the grass in the spring Texas weather, waiting for the promised thunderstorm, will always be one of my favorite memories. I love to weather storms with you. I love the calm before the storm, especially. But you can’t get that without the storm that follows, so I’ll take the whole package. I’ll take all of it, if I can have it with you.
20. By the time Callie graduated from high school, you had landed. Yes, part of landing meant going back to school but I landed with you, flailing the whole way, and I knew we could do this. It was good to be home.
24. How did we get here, I ask you? There’s been a lot of love, I’ll tell you that much. A lot of pain and heartache and disappointment too, but they say love covers a multitude of sins. And suddenly we’re here, in 2017, where two kids named Chris and Leslie turned into a whole bunch more kids named Callie, Sadie, Grace, Jeremy, Elisha, Ezra and grandbaby number two, who doesn’t yet have a name, due later this year. I don’t know how we got here, but I’ll take it.
Here I am. A little wet and a lot exhausted, and a lot humbled by my bad, bad attitude.
We didn’t have electricity for three days, and no water for four. You can bet our kitchen stank, stunk, and stinked to high heaven. After all the food in the fridge rotted, and rotted food-water leaked all over the floor, we finally decided to go ahead and clean out the fridge even though we still had no water. Boy, was that something. After it took both Grace and I together, using all the strength we could muster while trying not to breathe through our noses, to lug that awful garbage out to end of the driveway (sometimes I really regret not having sons), we still had all the dirty dishes that had held all that rotted food all over our counter that we couldn’t rinse out. We also had all the dishes from the previous three days that we had been unable to wash.
All that stinkiness sat there for what seemed like an eternity before our property owners were able to find the leak in our well, caused by trees falling and their roots wreaking havoc on the underground world. They repaired it and refilled the tank and I tell you I have never loved water so much. Nor have I ever loved more the people who know how to find and fix things in places like underground worlds. I might even go so far as to show my appreciation by actually drinking water again, even though I’m always trying to stick it to the man by not drinking it. I don’t like when they say I have to drink it even though I’m not thirsty. But that’s another post for another day…
I think I reached my lowest point on the evening of the second day, as I drove to Trader Joe’s after the sun had set, looking for food that didn’t need to be prepared (or refrigerated) that I could take to the potluck at church the next day. I was in such a deep funk. First of all, not only was our house freezing beyond belief and all our firewood wet, but our house was also very nearly inaccessible. All entrances and exits were blocked by either police cars with spinning lights or a simple sign in the road that said “Road Closed.” Every time we tried to drive anywhere was a gamble. We’d drive around the “Road Closed” signs and hope for the best, often getting all the way to the end of the road, only to be turned back around and have to try another way. Once I got out, all I could do was look at all the houses that I drove past in the night with all their beautiful lights and all I could feel was jealousy. “Those people in those houses…. they don’t even KNOW what they have right now!” I grumbled in my heart. I think I might have hated the people in those houses with those beautiful lights. It was a seriously ugly, low point for me. And then I got home and cried because of the beauty of simple fire light, while sharing a simple meal of pizza and wine and Sprite with lovely people. What a fickle heart I have.
But eventually, power WAS restored. And when our road finally opened up and we could actually drive down it, we couldn’t believe what we saw. 20-30 trees had fallen across our little road, some were still dangling from live power lines. Crews had been working around the clock, cutting through a mess of trunks, branches and leaves to try to make a way through and bring life back to the living. By the way, have you ever smelled fresh-cut eucalyptus trees, wet with rain? I will never forget that amazing smell in the midst of such a disaster zone. It was like all my senses were awakened and the view was made even more poignant. Sometimes I’m awakened in this same way on Sunday mornings when I’m tired and maybe grumpy and always hungry and the prayers start to stick in my throat… and then the incense comes swinging down the aisles. I couldn’t escape it if I wanted, but why would I want to? It swings my direction, it swings the other direction, it swings over all of us, with large puffs of smoke, rising to heaven along with our prayers. It opens our senses and we turn toward the reading of the gospel and we listen to the words chanted, and we cross our bodies, mind, mouth and heart, and it’s all made so very poignant as we prepare ourselves for Holy Eucharist, and prepare ourselves to be made whole. Bit by bit, week by week. It’s a process for such a fickle-hearted person like me.
But now the sun is out and chainsaws have been the soundtrack of my work day today. I’m sitting here looking out my back window, watching the sun set through a clearing that wasn’t there before. I’m looking at seven newly cut trunks, just in my line of view from my couch, which has let in light that wasn’t there before. It’s no small feat, cutting these tall trees, I tell you. See those teeny, tiny guys, way up there in those trees? They went almost to the top and cut down all the branches, working their way down. Then they cut the bare trunks. That view right there…imagine seven of the trees gone now. I don’t know why cutting trees always makes me so sad. I don’t think I could possibly be the granddaughter of a forester. I’m way too sentimental about these things.
But on the other hand, do you see that grass? I mean, yeah, I know it’s like two feet tall but do you see that green? I would never have thought that green was a real-life color, but it is. Oh, it is. It is everywhere right now. It’s like we live in a fairy tale. A very rainy, muddy fairy tale.
In the midst of my funk last Saturday, my mom sent me videos she was finally getting around to uploading from Christmas. I tell you, I couldn’t stop smiling. I know this post is long and I know I have a fickle heart, and I know it makes no sense to put this video here in this post. But something about this night at my mom and dad’s last December in Dallas, surrounded by people that I love, just brings my heart gladness and now I’d like to share that gladness here. It was one of those impromptu music nights that somehow always go better than if we had planned it. Sadie and Grace singing (I think I joined in some on the chorus), Sadie and Josh on guitar, Robbie jumped up and started plunking out a piano part, and then the best part of the night was when Uncle Billy suddenly pulled out a harmonica that nobody even knew he had in his pocket. Perfect. It was perfect. Maybe the lyrics about untying all the cables and ropes and just floating are exactly what I needed to hear right now.
We’ve been getting battered by wind and rain and trees, but especially trees. Elisha just walked in the door, soaking wet like a sponge, his body pouring water, oozing all the way from the top of his hair, running straight down his face, down to the bottom of his socks and out his shoes, creating a growing puddle as he stood in the entry-way to Callie and Jeremy’s apartment, telling us how bad it is out there. He was at his parents house, helping them with downed trees and on his way here, he passed at least 50 more trees across the roads and kept having to turn around.
I’ve been working at Callie and Jeremy’s all day since the power went off early this morning at our house, and you know, the work MUST go on. A few large eucalyptus trees fell smack dab on our neighbor’s house before I left, destroying completely her beautiful, glass paneled art studio. The five hundred or so remaining eucalyptuses on our property were dancing violently in the 40 mph winds, alternately waving their mighty branches to the storm-blackened skies, and bending down deep to the muddy, sodden grounds, as if in some kind of plea with Mother Nature Herself and All Of Eternity to let them live. Just let them live and they will do whatever you want, including dancing in all their nakedness in the most vulnerable of ways. Grace and I ran for our lives to our car and got the heck outta dodge.
Jeremy also worked from home since he couldn’t get to his work due to flooding. Callie, Sadie and Grace sat at the kitchen table all afternoon coloring, while Jeremy and I sat here in the warm, lighted, wifi-enabled living room, working. The girls had an iPhone sitting in the middle of table, playing music, while they all hummed different parts. Some of the parts were part of the actual song, some were not, all sounded good and brought a fullness to both the music and my heart as I considered the many ways that I have been blessed. It was lovely background music while I worked. Ezra slept upstairs while the storm raged on and on out there. Coldplay and my daughters all sang together about waiting for you until kingdom come while the trees continued to fall outside our windows, all over kingdom come.
Elisha just left with Sadie and the little bean, that’s turning into a cantaloupe that will soon be a basketball inside her. They are going to attempt to get home, despite all reports that the canyon they live in is completely inaccessible. Sadie didn’t want him to go alone, since there’s no cell signal out there and she’ll never hear from him if he gets stuck. So, off they went to get stuck together. Elisha’s last words were. “Goodbye. If you don’t hear from us again, you know where to look…. under the trees.” And with that, the soaking wet, dripping, grinning son-in-law was off with my daughter and unborn grandbaby.
Chris just walked in the door, looking slightly less wet than Elisha, but infinitely more beaten down. He’d been waiting at home to make sure the house was okay, and waiting for the power to come back on. It didn’t. And now we’re out of water. And a tree fell on our garage. We were supposed to have dinner with friends tonight, who also have no power and live on a road that’s blocked by fallen trees, so we have postponed it for a night that is a little less wet and windy.
This is the conversation that just happened:
Grace: “So what are you guys going to do tonight then?”
Chris: (I didn’t look up from my computer, but I heard complete silence)
Grace: “Dad, that makes no sense… you can’t up your butt and around the corner on a Friday night.”
So that’s a little bit of what the mood is like around here.
Oh yeah, and then Ezra woke up. And we all smiled and laughed and smiled and laughed some more. I’d definitely wait for these people until kingdom come.
I roll out of bed at the late, luxurious hour of 7:10am. I make coffee, I dunk Trader Joe’s chocolate chip dunkers in it and suck them down while waiting for my financial software to download all the past week’s transactions. I do a preliminary look at the depressing state of affairs, then shut the computer and take Grace to work.
After dropping her at the burrito making place, I leave her in the empty parking lot, knocking on the locked door and I turn west toward the beach.
I park and walk across the parking lot until it turns to soft sand, packed a little harder than usual due to recent rains, and I make my way to the edge of the water. I walk, with the other walkers. All of us bundled in our hoodies, protected from the wind while we watch the sun begin to burn off the fog. I walk, with the happiest dogs in the world, most of them let free from their leashes even though signs are posted clearly prohibiting such an egregious crime. I’m glad for the dogs and their freedom and their happiness.
I walk, with my ear buds in, which both blocks the cold wind from my sensitive ear canal that knew too many ear infections as a child, and also delivers beautiful sounds and thought-provoking words into my head and my heart while I walk.
I walk, I listen, I watch the other walkers, I watch the dogs roaming free, I watch the birds soaring even freer, I watch the fog slowly rolling back to where it came from, way out there in its lair in the deep Pacific, revealing the green hills and homes that cover them. I imagine the people living in those homes, filling their coffee cups, making their way to their balconies to watch the fog roll back while I walk beneath it. I sense a presence coming up behind me and am suddenly engulfed in teenage boys, in matching sweatshirts and bare feet, running together on the beach. They part and run on either side of me, passing me quietly and coming back together as a pack once they have safely passed me, running on. Where do they run to? What are they running from? Do their longings run as deep as mine? Does the running help to break up the longings and bring clarity to their mind? I half want to try it, but I more than half don’t. I walk on, listening, watching, feeling, always keeping an eye on the ever changing waves coming in and out, in and out, sometimes pushing me up farther into the softer sand, sometimes tempting me to come join them as they suck themselves back out, preparing for the next burst of power while they roll on and on and on and on. Ever changing, never changing, making all things new, keeping all things the same.
I climb the soft dune and I sit, letting my breath come back to normal. I sit until the moisture in the air has become so thick, that my hair has puffed to twice its normal size and I can’t run my fingers through it. I sit until the next song is gone and it takes most of the longing with it. I stand and turn toward the parking lot and the little green car that will take me home where my computer and an unfinished budget await.
The sun came out for a little bit today.
But before the sun came out, it rained for forty years. During those forty years, much was lost. At times it was difficult to remember if there had ever been a light upon this earth. All we knew was darkness, and in that darkness we experienced anxiety and fear, bitterness and death, cold and suffering, sleeplessness and extreme fatigue, and sorrow upon heartbreak upon sorrow. At times it was difficult to remember the reason for getting out of bed in the morning.
Do we continue to get up every morning because of the hope that today might be the day that the light returns? Or because even in the darkness, there is living yet to live?
Chris goes to Texas tomorrow for a funeral of one of the finest women I have ever had the privilege of meeting. Her death was unexpected and we grieve along with her husband and family and many friends. We grieve for her magnificent smile, snuffed out so soon. We grieve for the many people that she obviously loved in such a admirable, selfless and unconditional manner. We grieve because of the rain that envelops us and chills us through (even though we are in a drought and desperately need the rain). We grieve with others who are sick and dying and others who have lost loved ones. Death seems to have swallowed us whole this last month.
I have grown old this last month. In my old age, I have mourned the loss of beauty and of youth and of freedom. In my old age, I have searched for myself and my God anew. In my old age, I have contemplated the meaning of life, and of love, and of death.
It is supposed to continue raining for the next four days. I will get up each morning and I will live within the darkness and I will build my fire and I will work. I will schedule meetings and schedule phone calls and schedule other peoples’ lives and manage other peoples’ money. And when I’m done with that, I’ll do dishes and maybe some laundry and cook food and try to keep the fire going.
And next week, the sun will come out again.
I’ll put on makeup and go for long walks on the beach and spend time with lovely people and worship the God who took death to the grave and rose victorious and put his bow in the sky as a sign that the waters shall no more destroy all flesh. I’ll take the medicine he gives me each week in his body and blood. I’ll dance when the music plays and I’ll sing all the lyrics wrong and I’ll continue to type my name “Keskue” instead of “Leslie” when my right hand gets one row off on the keyboard.
And I’ll see this guy, who lights up even the darkest day and is a gentle reminder of life and all the goodness that it has to offer. I’ll talk all googly at him, and I’ll help him find his thumb when he needs it because that’s what grandmas do. We just love and cuddle.
And I’ll watch as my second grandchild grows inside this girl, while these two continue to grow in their love for one another in their new marriage.
We heard the new little one’s heartbeat last week. There is life yet to live. Old age may just be the best age yet.