A collision of the South and the Northwest
“Out of the anguish of his soul he shall see and be satisfied.”
Isaiah 53:11a
Go ahead.
Make your list.
Those things you don’t have.
The things you’ve done wrong.
The things the world has done to you.
The things you could never accept. Not in a million years.
——Yesterday would have been Dorothy Speigle’s 97th birthday. She passed away in January of this year. In her memory, I’m posting the eulogy I shared at her funeral.——
I’m the youngest of her three granddaughters. We all adored her.
I called her Momaw, but she’s been known by many names in her long life. Dorothy. Sister. Aunt. Dot. Dorosha. Mama. Hobie. Grandma. Great Grandma. In the last few weeks, hospice nurses have been coming in and out of her house. My mom told me that one of them commented that there was so much love in Momaw’s house.
The rocks were covered with green moss.
Above and below.
The water broke in white puffs.
Forward and back.
I opened my eyes.
They blinked in submission to the sun.
But I didn’t care.
It began that day.
I heard the familiar Skype “ding.” I am working toward a writing deadline. So, of course, I looked right away to see who it was.
It was an Indian pastor — we’ll call him Pastor P — I met a little over two years ago on a trip to Mumbai. He plants churches in the slums. Mumbai is home to some of the largest slums in the world. It was the setting for Slum Dog Millionaire. The slums in India are difficult to imagine (or recall to memory) while surrounded by comfortable American homes. Most of them are the size of a small or medium-sized American bathroom and a whole family lives there together. Sleeping on top of each other. No indoor plumbing. No electricity. Continue reading “Remembering India”
I wrote some about grief in my last post and will probably write more another time. In fact, you may get tired of hearing me talk about grief, because it’s something God is using to strip away the parts of my soul He wants to restore.
Allowing myself to grieve is submitting to the life God is giving me. And, no, it’s not easy or passive. It’s painful. A submission of my mind and will to see my circumstances as God’s faithful provision. A stark contrast to my instinctive toddler response of sitting in the middle of the living room, screaming, “I don’t want this. Give me what I want and give it to me now!” or the one where I’m withdrawn, curled up in bed and can’t remember the steps to starting my day.
I love this hymn, Whate’er my God Ordains is Right. I’ve posted the words below. Continue reading “Whate’er my God ordains is right”
We moved almost three months ago, our third move since May 2012. I’ve gotten pretty good at unpacking. It didn’t take long. What I have forgotten how to do is settle in. The only things left to unpack are boxes of books and mementos I couldn’t throw away.
This weekend, I opened a box of notebooks and binders. Some of those crazy things have been moving with me since I lived in the house on Circle Drive with the people who’ve known me the longest.
Notes from classes I liked. And a few I didn’t.
Most of the contents can be traced back to college (which ended 11 years ago). But, they’ve always been in a box. And always out of sight. Continue reading “The box”