A Ramble on the Beach

I went once to Wrightsville Beach. Our friends - we all - had left Goldsboro and drifted far, liberated leaves on an autumn wind, our colors scattered to brighten other lawns. We collected ourselves at their new home in Wilmington to celebrate the connections, and they took us out to the seaside, out to the edge of forever. God's visible power had come blowing through, last hurricane season I guess, and humans and machines had "re-built" His beach. It was a horrid, coarse sand full of seashell shards that scraped shoes and scrubbed bare feet, but it got worse. The water was deceptively soothing in color, a pale aqua-blue, but the yellow flags warned we must take care. I'd not seen such waves before on the gentle Mediterranean and South Carolina beaches I'd visited. This was a damaged coast, and it had lost the gradually sloped shelf that should have sent whispering swells smoothly forward to caress silky white sands. The waves tossed angry white manes a few short feet from shore, then galloped in to pound their heads against the wall of ground up, spit out, dumped in skeletons that served as a beach that year. There was no bed for them to lie in to rest themselves before the long run back to sea; nor was there any place for human feet to stand before climbing onto the backs of the waves. A three-foot sheer drop marked the edge of land, and the bottom fell steeply away from there. To swim was like leaping over a racetrack fence in the second turn onto the backs of horses about to enter the home stretch. These were not patient, easy, playful horses. They were busy and in a great hurry, of course, and we bathers were troublesome distractions. Thus were we trampled and tossed and ultimately thrown back against that same wall we'd descended for the sake of this pleasure. Shell bits sanded the skin off our bare places, and the grit interposed itself in the tight spots between suit and flesh. Gasping for breath and grappling for handholds, we quickly reached the limits of our desire to swim on that particular day, at that particular beach.

Faith in What?

Thinking about faith, and what it is, and why it matters. The world as we perceive would not exist if not for faith. We cannot live in community without faith. I'm not sure we can live at all without it. We have to have faith in certain basic things, don't we? I pondered a bit; what do you think?



we all have faith in something. what do you believe?

do you believe that if you follow the traffic laws
everyone else will, too? anyone else?

do you believe that the price of a loaf of bread
will stay the same from the bakery shelf to the checkout line? in this country?

do you believe that mothers and fathers
never want to hurt their children? maybe not often?

do you believe that wars are fought
for high and noble reasons? or reasonable reasons?

do you believe that your friends
will always have your back? if they're able?

do you believe that if you're careful with your money
you'll never do without? much?

do you believe that if you work smart and study hard and live clean
you'll get your dream job? or at least a job?

do you believe that if you treat people right
they'll appreciate you? respect you?

I don't.
I don't believe any of those things.
The more I see, the more I learn, the less I believe. The less I trust in people or things or patterns or systems, or even experience.

But I believe God is real, and loving, and active.
For me, that faith
is enough.

It is enough, because even if no one else follows traffic laws, and I lose property or health or life as a result, my faith says that God is still real, and loving, and active. That means He's still in control, since He's God; and He's taking care of all of us, including me, since He's loving; and things will work out for the best, since He's active.

It is enough, because even runaway inflation can't stop God's work, and we ought to be relying on Him for provision, anyway, not a bakery or an economy or a government. He is the Bread of Life, and the price for us to have that bread has already been paid, and we can therefore be full citizens and participants in the perfect Kingdom of God.

Mothers and fathers aren't perfect, and neither are children. War is hell. Friends fail us. Even when we do all the right things, life is difficult. That's to remind us that we aren't supposed to be able to live by our standards of what's good or pleasing or perfect.

Instead, we can interpret the disappointments as challenges to switch around our faith. Instead of believing in people or policies or processes that seem to make the world go around, we can follow the advice in Romans 12:2: "Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will" (NIV).

We can choose to believe that when things are out of our control, they're still in His control, so we don't have to get too bent out of shape about things like traffic and inflation and anger and war and on and on. We can choose to accept the task of finding what is good and pleasing and perfect in what He is allowing to happen in our lives.

Then,

faith in that

is enough.

Secret Garden

There is a secret garden far away with clear water flowing over smooth stones into a small pond. Today I saw a moment of video from the garden, because the gardener shared it online. I’d seen still images of the place before, but I hadn’t listened to it. Today I heard water singing and dancing over stones, and I breathed deeply and enjoyed the moment of peace. Then, right in the middle of my moment, I heard the evidence that not everyone has a peaceful place to be: I heard sirens wailing in the near distance.

This garden, you see, is not in the remote countryside, where only the gardener, God, and His insentient creation can hear the music of the water. It is not in an ancient holy site blessed by centuries of spiritual reflection. It is not on the grounds of a church or a monastery or an abbey. The garden is in a city full of His beloved, souls who are made in His image, fallen from grace and struggling along to somewhere, mostly unaware that there's even a better somewhere to be. It is a place of stillness in the middle of commotion.

I’m full of puzzles, and here was one for today: I smiled when I heard the sirens. It made me smile to know of the gardener being there, actively, intentionally inhabiting a peaceful place. The smile broadened as I realized we are called to be a peaceful place, and that we get to be that no matter where we are, even in a busy, hurting, noisy, unsettling place.

I believe we all can find such peace if we focus properly. “Be still and know that I am God,” He said in Psalm 46:10. That wasn't a sometimes-when-you-feel-like-it good idea way back when. That's a lifestyle choice right now. In the middle of a city, even in that very emergency vehicle we heard, we are able to pay attention, to choose to believe that God is, that He is good, that all things have a purpose, that this moment is all we have so we may as well love in it, rejoice in it, bless in it. When we do that, we’re all secret gardeners. We create space to enjoy peace ourselves, but we are actively, intentionally involved in being a peaceful place, sharing ourselves (and Himself) with all who are willing to sit and abide and receive.

I think even God Himself smiles at secret gardens like that.

Why I Love to Teach, or The Joy of "x"

“Why?” is a perfectly reasonable question. Fortunately, I ask it often, so when one of my students inevitably wonders, I generally have a good answer ready. Any subject can inspire such a query, but solving for the unknown ("x") is almost  guaranteed to have the effect eventually.

Today my beginning algebra student asks, "What do we use this for?"

He says it rapidly, words running together with a zzzzz sound, like a bubbling consonant soup spilling out onto a hot stove. His eyes dart from notebook to textbook to table and almost to me as he freezes his pencil hand, but his feet are still fidgeting, running under the table, off on adventures he can't quite follow until he figures this out.

The expression under his pencil is 15y + 9x - 6x - 1y.

I tell him a story about apple picking, yellow and red apples, losing some, figuring out how many of each we still have.

He nods, not wanting to disagree, but still not quite there. He probably figures he’s not likely to pick yellow or red apples, so maybe I didn’t understand his question. "They said in another class yesterday, when we were talking, that after Algebra 2 the math isn't for any reason."

I'd been helping in that class, it turns out; I’d heard that. "Ah, well! About halfway through Algebra 2, you'll get to a kind of math that works with ideas and imaginary things. You can't pick up apples or boxes to explain it."

"OK."

"But people who need to make imaginary things real, those people use that kind of math. Like an architect who can imagine a cool-looking building. He has to figure out if he can actually build it. Will it fall down? How can he support it? Will the wind twist it too much? How many people can move around in it?

"So that other math helps people like that, people who imagine things. It helps them make them real."

Now he's with me. "I can imagine a LOT of things."

"Well, then you might just like Algebra 2!"

The hand unfreezes and pencil hits paper. The eyes stop searching and focus first on the textbook, then on the notebook as he starts copying down the next problem. "Yeah, so if I can just figure out the formulas and just do it, I can kinda fly with it."

Or something like that. It was really fast, and kinda buzzy. But he was smiling!

I love this stuff.

Stepping Forward

"I've been to a lot of airports. But I haven't flown much."

I wrote that nearly four years ago. It's about to be published in my book, From Fortress to Freedom, in a chapter called "Staying Behind." I re-read it today while proofreading the manuscript for the book. In the past two days, I've dropped off my son at an airport and bid farewell to a dear friend headed to another airport. And I still haven't flown much. I realized, though, that I don't feel like I'm staying behind any more.

I want to make some notes now, pile up some stones here on this side of the river, to remind me I've come this far. It took nearly fifty years for God to convince me of the truth that He loves me just as I am, and it's taking nearly thirty (so far) for me to believe that my husband loves me unconditionally as well. Out of fear of rejection, I've stayed behind and hidden behind and deliberately fallen behind for all these years. Now I'm seeing that I don't have to have that fear or that behavior. So at last, I am beginning to take shaky first steps into speaking my mind, asking for help, taking a stand, and charting my course. I'm learning to express who I am. What evidences can I stack up here to celebrate?

- I went on a beach trip with women friends and no family members for the first time in my life.

- I wrote and published The Mom's Guide to Surviving West Point with my friend Lisa Browne Joiner.

- I took three different dance/exercise classes; dancing with strangers: pretty radical.

- I participated in a practical drama class - not drama as history, not stagecraft - actually learning how to act.

- I got over my fear of trying new foods so now a menu looks like an adventure rather than a mine field for me.

- I auditioned publicly for a vocal solo (and got it); I am finding my own singing voice rather than copying others'.

- I took charge of managing my mother-in-law's suddenly complex medical care in her last days.

- I assisted in directing several dramatic performances.

- I substituted as a classroom teacher for the first time, with no advance notice, and I was able to manage the students as well as get some productive activity completed.

- I met several new friends and am now cultivating new relationships.

- I weathered what might be called a mid-life crisis, I guess, that severely challenged my marriage, and together with my husband I am daily learning to have a better marriage.

- I submitted two of my own books to a publisher and one has been accepted!

That's twelve first-times, twelve stones of testimony, as many as the leaders of Israel placed to remind them of crossing the Jordan. It marked their entrance into the Promised Land, and I feel as if I've landed in a promised place, too.

I guess maybe I've flown a bit after all!

From Fortress to Freedom

In January 2011, God used a simple compliment to change my life. I had long struggled to be good in the eyes of God and man. In my immature, perfectionist way, I had developed strict rules and high standards designed to protect me from harm.  I effectively built a fortress around myself, a safe but increasingly restrictive haven. When God knew my heart was ready, He turned a friend’s words into a powerful tool to demolish my fortress and show me that His plan for me involved more freedom than I had ever imagined.

            The freedom astonished me. I had not realized how much I had been controlled by fear, guilt and shame in what I thought had been a life of faith. The joy of release left me almost speechless with wonder, but the Lord poured words into and through me to help me understand, resulting in healing for me and insight for others who read the material. I wrote almost every morning for many weeks, and the first forty of these writings are collected in From Fortress to Freedom.

            Now, in September 2014, I've just signed a contract with Light Messages to publish From Fortress to Freedom. I am sure there are many people who will be blessed by the messages it holds. Please check in here or on my Facebook page as I post progress reports!        

Washing Sheets

On this, the morning my second son left for his senior year of college, I am three days past his Grandma Jane's funeral. We were all together, celebrating the joy of a life well-lived. Chins up, smiling, hugging, comforting. Being comforted, too, by our memories and her friends. On this morning, saying farewell again, when my heart closed itself against useless tears again, I needed to read, to find words to take me away from the place where I wanted not to cry.

I read about a pilgrimage. A friend is going to Ireland soon. Looking at richly colored photos, I began not only to see the landscapes, but to know my friend walking there, to pray for the Spirit to lead.

The feelings, this morning, in the reading and the praying, the grieving and the trusting, reminded me of Lockerbie. I'd read a play a few years back, "The Women of Lockerbie." Forgetful, I couldn't remember the name at first. Was it indeed in Ireland? No, I thought, but what was the name? It came to me at last, and I went to read a bit to refresh the memories.

Wikipedia had an article about Pan Am Flight 103, destroyed by a terrorist's bomb, crashed into the tiny town of Lockerbie, Scotland. The article stated what I'd learned from the play, that, "The people of the town washed, dried, and ironed every piece of clothing that was found once the police had determined they were of no forensic value, so that as many items as possible could be returned to the relatives."

So ordinary. So everyday.

Eleven people in Lockerbie died when the plane exploded on the ground. Two hundred fifty-nine human beings perished in the plane itself; some actually survived the crash and were found alive, though only for moments, by residents of Lockerbie. In the face of unfaceable horror, these open-hearted people asked, "What can I do to serve? I can wash." How beautiful it was, imposing sanity and order and safety on an unsafe world.

My pain is not nearly so immense. But I can wash.

When I woke fully for the day, I went to the room where that son has been sleeping. It's the dining room we turned into a music room, which we had changed into a curtained bedroom during Jane's illness and stay here. I stripped the sheets and I washed them.

Then I came to my room, my safe place, the room I had given up to Jane for seven weeks during her illness. There was a shopping bag in the floor by the rocking chair where I'd sat to visit with her as she propped up in my bed. In the bag I'd stowed some sheets after she returned home, ready to pick up and go at a moment's notice, to cover the hide-a-bed mattress in her apartment should she need me to come.

I'd used them once and brought them home, but hadn't washed and put them away. No need, if they would be soon needed again.

They'll not be needed.

I washed the sheets today. And I begin the work of making life make sense again, without the visits to the dear, caring doctors and nurses, without the long drives with time to reflect and meditate, without the company of her attentive and helpful friends. Without Jane.

Washing Sheets

I washed my sheets today.

Green and cool, smooth and soft,

they covered me

when I covered her with love.

I'll fold them next,

edges lining up sensibly

in a life

on the edge of making sense.

I won't ask why.

It was time.

They must be set for service

when called again.

Her sheets were white,

stiff and creased, very fine.

They suited her,

reflected and protected her.

I won't ask why.

It was time.

She is set for service

and called away.

I'll wash the memories,

fold them neat and orderly

for a time

with time to think.

I won't ask why.

It isn't time.

First, in faithful service,

I'll wash her sheets.

Deborah L. W. Roszel

August 8, 2014