Just follow

Three years ago to the month, I was dreaming, slowly unpacking and savoring my new, light-filled studio in a former classroom. It had taken me six years to get here and since the first inner promptings of Spirit initiated this adventure.

That six years seemed like forever. And the three since have vanished too quickly. However, I can count the many blessing in between:

• The luxury of space and quiet to listen to God regularly.
• Using that gift to create an arts exploration for then unknown children, though Jordan, Alivia and Jihad had infiltrated my heart and were the target to which I was drawing closer. I had met them as an art-room volunteer and they melted my heart and planted the seed for a program, where other kids from their complex could shine.
• Having an empty classroom as a blank canvas in which to create a sacred studio.
• Actually hosting Artsy Fartsy here initially with six girls and now with 21 on the roster, including boys.
• Dreaming up a series of classes or single, creative workshops and having the perfect space to pull them off.
• Finding a place to hold all of my ministry.
• Being at the heart of the community and my neighborhood.
• Sharing in the patina of wonderful things that have happened here since 1912.
• Making art here.
• Writing blogs and books here.
• Sharing this section with other artists, including my husband.
• Feeling community.
• Always knowing my stay was tenuous, but planting roots anyway.
• Inviting others here to find a way to save this building.
• Knowing I have been faithful.


I have come to realize that what I believed to be impatient waiting for the next step has actually been grief named by two wise ministers. 

I have known this place with the young-adult loss of my best friend, a miscarriage and the passing of in-laws, grandparents, beloved aunts and uncles, even family pets. I had not equated it to a space or my work. I have come and gone from many jobs over the years, but never mourned them quite like this. This wasn't a job, it was ministry and emanated from my heart.

How it began

With this new insight, I spent yesterday relishing being in the quiet space and carefully packing what can go to storage. It wasn't a chore, but a ritual. Packing away the wonderful presence of Spirit here that has witnessed and facilitated so much transformation in me, the kids and others here to volunteer or participate in a workshop or class.

Room 102, a former math room, is totally infused with God and it will remain even if the last brick is yanked out.

Where it is ending

Yesterday, I was sad and the ritual helped. That is one important lesson I learned working for a casket company. Rituals are there for the times, like grief, when we don't know what to do and we must do something. Rituals are comforting and offer meaning. Even my own, by myself.

Writing this blog seems part of the letting-go ritual. I am savoring this task  more than normal, not skipping through to get it finished, edited, recorded and posted. 

I sense God between the words, on the keyboard, in my heart and head. She knows this is a bittersweet time. Yet, today, I am growing more toward deep, quiet joy, calm and peace as I move from one known thing into one unknown – at the direction of Spirit.

My prayer two days ago was for spiritual companionship and I received it abundantly. I also asked for simplicity (taking the time to pack) and abundance (the richness of companionship and empathy from so many).

I don't know where I am going. And, today, that's just fine.

An hour ago I was speaking with one of my current spiritual companions. His church has promised me space to do Artsy Fartsy. That may be the simplicity that I am seeking. Just knowing they are there, supportive and available makes all of the difference.

So does what my pastoral counselor told me Wednesday. He looked me dead in the eye and said: "You have made a difference ... in the lives of those kids. Whether or not you continue, their live shave been changed for the better."

As has mine.

• When have I found ritual a comfort?
• How?
• How have I learned to surrender to Spirit?
• What practices, companions or experience help me trust?
• When can I walk one step at a time?


the cool, soothing
air drifts in the
open window

for the first time
this season

as if a finger
unfurling

calls me
out into
the unknown

suggesting
it is time
to move on

God has
another plan

just
follow

Listen to this post:

Salve of Spirit

Lillian Smith Barney is an enigma to me. She was long gone by the time I entered the Barney family. Stories of my father-in-law's mother eked out over time. They weren't pretty. Like when my twin brothers-in-law were newborns. She held one of them and asked their mother, my beloved mother-in-law, "What would happen if I dropped one?" In her later years, she spent time at a mental-health institution.

That's about all I knew. When our second daughter was born and we loved the name Lily, we made sure to tell her grandmother it was just Lily, not short for Lillian.

Lillian's high school graduation

This week, we celebrated my husband's and his twin sister's birthday at her beautiful rural home. For some reason, Lillian became a subject of discussion and my sister-in-law pulled out a notebook full of pencilled poems Lillian had prolifically written about the course of her life. Cousins had recently given her the book of poems at a family reunion. She was deeply grateful because the binder she had burned in a house fire. She had no idea there was another copy. "Can you believe this is her actual handwriting?" my sister-in-law asked. The connection she felt was palpable, reminding me of the energy I experienced handling a book published in 1661 by my ancestor. [

Together, we pawed through the perfectly handwritten, barely edited stash. Wow, she wrote about everything: a sweet-16 love who went off to WWI, her only son, her grandchildren, her struggle with sanity, aging and faith. A thread of longing ran through the passages, yet I also saw hope, resilience and a deep love of family. She looked at things honestly, especially her condition, in whatever moment she was examining.

My husband's father wrote a book called "Porter Township" about his family and growing up in Wheelersburg, OH. I haven't read it in years, but pulled it back out to get some sense of Lillian Esther Smith Barney. I hadn't even  known her full name.

Lillian in 1919 at her first teaching position

Her son regarded her fondly as nurturing, resourceful and compassionate. During the Depression, she met with the county school superintendent, seeking a teaching job. She was sent 30 miles and as far away as possible while remaining in the county. Her husband, "Jake," drove her back and forth at the beginning and end of the week. Lillian and son John boarded near the country, one-room school. Her next assignment, though closer to home, was also a collection of grades, but she made the best of it. Raised Baptist, but convinced her father to allow her to marry a German Catholic, though, according to her father, his family was "fresh" from Germany, only 50 years ago and nowhere near as settled as the Smith clan. There's no mention of anything dark, except, possibly, Lillian's relationship with her father:

"I liked Grandpa Smith very much. I knew him personally and we spent many hours in each other's company ... He didn't look like the picture-book grandfather. Put a little more hair on his head and exchange the pitchfork for  a saw and you have the man in Grant Wood's American Gothic ...  I myself have heard him called mean, miserly and martinetish.

"One time when she was twelve and her mother was ill, my mother got up at five in the morning. She built the fire, prepared the breakfast for the family and got her brothers and sisters ready for school. She prepared her father's breakfast; he punished her for not putting her long stockings on properly before coming into his presence that morning.

Ends: my mother- & father-in law,  Lillian and "Jake" with infants Jim and John

"Epilogue:
My mother is gone. She is standing at her father's elbow attempting to explain her sorrow for having felt ill of him during their lifetime. He fails to hear because he is busy telling Saint Peter what a fine daughter she was and how well pleased he always was with her."

          – From Porter Township by John Smith Barney 

The epilogue chills me. Did her struggle stem from attempting to gain her father's favor? Today, there would be many non-invasive options for dealing with that. Perhaps her poetry was the one path to healing she could find herself.

Though my sister-in-law offered me the binder to take home, I felt it belongs with her, though I firmly believe we need to scan her poems. I want to spend more time with them; much more. She had so much to say.

When my Lily overheard the conversation about Lillian remarking on the possibility of dropping one  of the newborns, she said, "But don't you ever think about doing things like that?" "Sure, but you don't say it out loud," quipped her sister.

I believe Lillian examined everything out loud, even her darkest thoughts.

Loneliness Vs. Solitude

I have learned to live

with loneliness.

To cast away the doubts

and fears

of being insufficient to

myself.

In one’s own heart must

true contentment live.

Yet oft, so oft, we

feel the need of those

whom we have known

and loved in other days.

We yearn to see another’s

face which we

have loved and lost

somewhere upon the way.

To touch the hand once

held in fond caress;

to hear the voice that

is no longer heard.

For this there is no

lease.

They cannot come.

In memory only can

we have them still.

This we accept in time.

Take what we can

of pleasure in remembering.

This loneliness does

shed its harsher mood.

This loneliness does

change to solitude.

– Lillian Esther Smith Barney

• Who is your example of living out loud?

• How has that person influenced you?

• How can family, even generations back, touch us now?

• Who would you like to have known? Why?

• What legacy will you leave?

Though the treads are thin,

they still touch me,

calling me to know

this woman who struggled

yet was courageous enough

to examine her life

I wonder what conclusion

she reached

Her words show resilience,

grace and a strong sense

of Spirit as she poured

out and over her life

Spirit, the salve

for the painful parts

Listen to this post: