On the homefront

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Did anyone else listen to Garrison Keiller’s, Tales from Lake Wobegon, in the nineties?

Well it has been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, AKA home.

Most things here are determined by homeschooling and a pattern of Andy leaving for work on Sunday afternoon and not coming home until Thursday night. It makes for a very short weekend but I’m learning to cherish the feeling of sadness I have when he leaves as a token of love rather than loss. We are making the most of every minute of the shortened weekend as you may have noticed from my social media activity. Nothing fancy, just good home cooked meals, a little baking, a little cinema, trips out to favourite places not far from home and church.

If anyone reading this also suffers from being apart from loved ones, I hope you find some practices that make it a little easier for yourselves.

We like to share Compline*, by phone, several times a week. Andy reads and by the time he arrives at …

“As the night watch looks for the morning, so do we look for you, O Christ.

Come with the dawning of the day and make yourself known in the breaking of the bread.”

… we’re ready for a restful goodnight and some well earned sleep.

In further news, I am knitting mittens and gloves (endlessly). These in the picture are for Lucy. Knitted up in Debbie Bliss merino wool (Rialto) from a sweet vintage pattern I found inside my Grandma’s war time knitting book, I’m really happy with the colours and the stitch definition.

I’m linking up with Ginny Sheller at Yarn Along today. This is a great place for those of us who love our yarn craft and our reading. Visit her blog for restful thoughts a couple of times a week and the most beautiful homesteading photos.

In terms of reading, I might just treat myself to a Garrison Keiller short story. Sadly most of his early books are now out of print but you can still get hold of second hand copies and wonderful recordings of him reading the stories of small town American life for the radio.

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*Compline is a service of evening prayers from  the Divine Office of the Western Christian Church, traditionally said (or chanted) before retiring for the night. we use the Anglican order and you can find it here.

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Burning bushes

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On my street, there were two trees ablaze with red leafed flames, a Pentecostal anointing in an age of faltering belief.

It’s a blessing to the eyes.

Weeks later I pass this place and the flames glow hot, but the tree is not burnt up. Today they kindle yellow across the dull sky of this more than lovely autumn.

On the ground leaves fallen, smoulder like ash in yesterday’s hearth. The sun burns low, casting gold amongst the thinning hedges and piles of leaves.

Hearing the audible voice of God is rare. In our sceptical age, believing the testimony of those who do is rarer still, but there are burning bushes on every street corner, and ordinary folk who are sure they have heard God speak.

Moses lived the strangest kind of orphaned life. Separated at birth from his Hebrew family and raised in the Pharaoh’s place, he fled leaving matters undone to make an uncertain home for himself, far from the life he had been given. Alone in the desert place, tending another man’s flocks, his eye was drawn to the strangest sight.

A bush flickering hot with flames.

It burned but it was not consumed.

The bush was on fire but it did not burn up and Moses was listening and watching more carefully than before. “I will go over and see this strange sight” he said. The Exodus account tells us that when God saw that Moses had gone over to look – then he spoke to him, calling his name from out of the burning bush, causing him to remove his shoes and hide his face.

The nights are drawing in, calling us home, out of the cold, this creeping stain of darkness, split like ink, daylight saving and so much less light for us to see by. Yet, there are burning bushes on street corners and when God saw us go to look, then he spoke.

How can we not compare the seasons of our calendar to the seasons of the soul? How can we not take comfort in the brilliance of autumn glory as winter falls around us? Why would we not scan our horizon and watch to see a burning bush and hear the voice of God?

It makes for the breaking of a heart, to feel alone in this world, to fear that God is silent, that he does not care for us. And it is truely the condition of being human that we know this loss. But we were made to face this and to grapple with it. There is a clear sighted envisioning beyond our doubt and fear which is why we wrap up warm and go out into the cold, looking for a burning bush in a near-winter landscape.

It will turn the eye, and then the soul,  back towards the blessings of God.

 

 

 

Farewell to Dappled Things

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After a break from blogging I’m ready to go again with a new place that I’m calling, I felt it shelter.

I started blogging in the Christmas holidays of 2012. After years of intermittent scribblings I was finally making myself write for an audience. Friends and one or two strangers received the efforts warmly and so I carried on.

Writing became a kind of shelter for me and a few other people, or so it seemed.

About six months into the venture I felt compelled to write honestly on darker aspects of life. The first time I wrote about depression I did not instantly feel it shelter to speak to my audience on a subject that had done a great deal of harm in my own life and amongst my family. I pressed “publish” then curled up foetal on the sofa ready to over-winter there with my face pressed in a cushion and my fingers over my ears.

But I had nothing to fear. The piece was received with kindness and opened up for me a world of fellow sufferers and sympathisers from the most surprising places. It would seem there are few of us who have not experienced this for ourselves or lived close to someone who has. I was a tiny part of a wider movement of people who wanted to expose the taboo and reassure others it was OK to talk about the negative aspects of mental health.

When I read the piece now it is tamed and controlled. At the time it felt radical, vulnerable and brave. It had a happy ending. Back then it was the only way I could write it. It seemed the most Christian thing to do. As things turned out my journey out of depression was more complex than it might have first seemed. I began to find that some habits of mind and some practices of belief were not as Christian as I once thought and not as helpful or healthful as I had thought.

The American poet Emily Dickinson shared a long correspondence with the publisher Thomas Wentworth Higginson, a man she met only once. “I felt it shelter to speak to you” she wrote in a letter that (like all her letters) read more like a poem. The line stuck with me, got under my skin even, wouldn’t let me go. I sense in these words the joy of an exceptional connection, one that comes when we meet a person who seems to understand and listen to the deeper part of who we are. It is as C.S. Lewis says: “Friendship … is born at the moment when one man says to another “What! You too? I thought that I was the only one.” And dare I suggest that for many of us that moment came not man to man but reader to writer? We found shelter in what we read.

Commentators are saying that blogging is dead, that the internet is straining under the weight of amateur writers over sharing their half-baked thoughts. I accept that as a caution but I want to use my words to create moment when a reader can say “What! You too?” especially of humanity, faith and matters of the soul.

Shelter is a good place to begin, to find and make shelter and offer it here through my words.