Celebrating miracleness

Sunday, I attended the birthday party of a one-year-old and yet the next youngest child was a sixth grader. There were balloons, cupcakes and gifts, but beyond that any similarity to other children's birthday parties ended.

Even the birthday boy didn't eat his cupcake – didn't even try. Born very early, he's on par with an eight-month old, yet thriving in his own way thanks to a very loving couple whose children are grown and, mostly, out of the house.

My neighbors, Mark and Bev, have tended this little guy for three-quarters of a year, bringing him home hooked up to monitors and oxygen, dutifully ferrying him to hospital and physician appointments, setting the alarm for middle-of-the-night feedings because his diminished appetite won't wake him up and, generally, lavishing as much love as they can on their foster child.

The teary highlight of the afternoon was a video Mark and Bev's daughters made with original lyrics they sang to the tune of "Hey, Jude" and how this baby boy was marked by God for greatness. It was a beautiful tribute to life, this life, this boy and these amazingly giving foster parents.

This poster is borrowed from the Judson Center, a
human-services agency in Michigan. It reached in
and pulled my heart out.

We began the party with an assignment: taking a sheet of questions related to the care and nurturing of this baby from person to person to find the answers and break the ice. Apparently, this was a diverse group of guests. Some of us had prayed for him, held him, known him when attached to oxygen, understood his diet, paid visits to the NICU with him, been told the origins of his quirky, but well-suited name and known Mark and Bev before. It was an ingenious ice-breaker that was relaxed and gathering. That's just how these neighbors are.

Last December, they offered the perfect foil to a busy holiday season: soup, conversation and board games. It was just about my favorite event. Simple, hospitable and no pretentions. Just people gathering for informal companionship. All four of us attended that and still talk about how amazing that one, simple evening was.

For the birthday party, I escorted my mother. She spent a good deal of time on the couch with another neighbor, Margaret. They are similar in age and both Iowans. They've gotten to know each other through the book club Bev started about 15 years ago. As they chatted, I became reacquainted with the woman who used to live behind us. I had no idea how much help she's been recently to Bev and Mark, caring for the little one during a particularly stressful procedure. I  ran into other favorite neighbors whom I never see, but spent time with the week before at a Halloween party. Lucky for me, I remarked, that I'd run into them twice in one week. I also met some wonderful new faces and was charmed by a red-headed sixth grader with a generous smile and easy manner.

As I steered my mother into the kitchen for tea, we lingered a few minutes with Bev. She lit up as she talked about their foster child and how much fun it has been raising a boy after three girls and, besides, "the one in Heaven." They'd had a baby boy whose life had been cut very short before their three amazing daughters. "Boys are so very different," Bev had commented, relishing the new experience. There's no question that Mark is in love with this little bundle. He and the boy shine around each other.

I'd counted Mark as an unassuming, quiet engineer until a few summers ago. At an open house for the arts exploration I host for at-risk kids, Mark parked himself in the hallway with the boys and drummed his heart out – the entire two hours. Giddy from the interaction – we all were – he rocked the van in a gesture of complete zest as we all packed up to leave.

Before the infant, the couple fostered a fourth-grader, whom Mark walked around the neighborhood stopping by friends to properly introduce his charge. She was darling, posessed a wonderful sparkle in her eye and shared a dog-eared photo she rescued from her pocket. It was a picture of her amid her beloved brothers, all separated at the moment. Mark had taken the photo for her. You could tell it was a prized possession of memory and hope.

Over the years, they've fostered other kids and raised a guide dog in addition to their own three incredible young women. One is at home until she funds her ministry in Italy caring for refugees. Another is off in somewhere between Russia and the Middle East working and spreading God's love. The third teaches music in Korea, where she lives with her husband and young daughters. All of these women baby-sat my girls. In fact, the older two were Autumn's first sitters and they set the bar. High.

Bev has been such an inspiration and support for me over the years. She understands what it's like to listen for God and live on the fringes, your identity tied to others.

They don't think they do anything special, just what they are called to. In fact, the entire birthday revolved around how their friends, faith community and neighbors have shared in the joy of fostering this small child. They called it a celebration of his year of miracleness.

• Who inspires me?
• Who are my models for faithful living?
• How does their humility touch me?
• How have I witnessed community form around need and in support of others ministering?
• Where do I find my own ministry?


this wee one
launched into
life early
very

into to such
circumstance from
which God would
rescue him

if only
briefly

and into
the arms

of waiting, loving
servants

Listen to this post:

Contagious zest for life

I had forgotten how magnetic Pat is, how people are drawn to her, how, when she asks, you want to say yes to, well, anything.

We knew her in our early days of marriage, when Tad and I lived in a beautiful, old apartment atop an antique shop, sandwiched between the Loveland City building and The Whistle Stop Cafe, where you could get a draft for under a buck. We chose Loveland because one of us worked in Lebanon and the other, in Montgomery. It was a good halfway point. We'd almost given up looking for something interesting when, as we drove through the sleepy downtown, I was drawn to the top of the antique shop. There was no for-rent sign, but it looked vacant and inviting.

I called and the owners were delighted to rent it with one caution: it hadn't been lived in in 30 years. That translated into lots of scrubbing walls and cabinets, but, in doing so, being rewarded by little discoveries such as original, ruffled shelf paper in mint condition, the large closet with dressing table and mirror, marble bathroom with separate toilet and swinging kitchen door. We made our home here for five years, though we kept our Loveland office longer. That office happened to be two doors down from our bank, where the Chamber of Commerce office was located. Pat was the director, so it was inevitable that we would meet. As a creative agency, we became involved in the Loveland Valentine program and Tad served on the chamber's board of directors. The Christmas parties, under Pat's joyful hand, were some of the best, most intimate corporate events I've ever attended and that includes lots of press parties as a journalist.

Don't miss Pat's leopard shoes and the conga line behind her

So it was no surprise to us that her 80th birthday would be nothing short of fabulous. Just pulling up to the magnificent club house was a treat. Tad dusted off his tux and my girls selected my dress, did my makeup, nails and supplied jewelry. Gussied up, we strode in to glittering women and penguin-attired men. But none shone brighter than the diminutive Pat in her sassy beige jacket and flowing dress. She must have individually greeted every single person, making each feel as if they were the only guest. She has that way.

After rounds of filling appetizers and a few glasses of wine, Pat had us all at the dance floor. First as many wonderful presentations were made, then to dance to the great Dixieland-swing band. No one was left unattended.

It's been over 20 years since we lived in Loveland and, as we have acclimated to Milford, we seemed to have left behind that chapter behind. Those ties, however, were rekindled a year-and-a-half ago when Tad held a photo show in Loveland's Maritain Gallery thanks to our friend Joe. We were honored to live across the street from his father's design studio and gallery in Loveland and connect through graphic-design projects. Pat attended Tad's opening and the years melted. Most recently, Tad designed the logo for 42 Street, a Loveland Stage Company production Pat was directing. I learned at the party that she launched the Loveland Stage Company herself. Upon moving to Loveland, asking about local theater and learning there was none, she famously responded, "There is now."

Our teens still remember Pat's visit in 2002, when she served as the Loveland Valentine Lady, a big honor. She drove over for a Milford visit, which thrilled the girls more than Santa. She went out of her way to do special things like that. Still does, I am certain.

My favorite gazpacho recipe comes from her late husband, Fred. He was a doll and they adored each other. I felt like a voyeur, but in a good way, watching the slides depicting her life at the party, seeing Pat as a girl, then her and Fred as a young couple, through the child-rearing years and more recently. The one that lingers in my mind is Pat poking through the rubble after the theater the stage company rehabbed burned, but would soon and assuredly, be rebuilt. The photos gave me perspective on her life, energy and enthusiasm. And reminded me how lucky I am to have experienced such a rich time in Loveland and still have strong ties.

We reconnected with a few other longtime friends and acquaintances with refreshing big rounds of hugs and quick catching up. I noticed Wayne, who had been the city manager when we moved in next door. We even did some design work for the city and got to know him fairly well. I sought him out, thinking I'd have to explain who I was, when his arms opened wide and he gave me a giant, fatherly hug. "Oh, no, don't you remember we first met when I was consulting for the City of Montgomery and you were a reporter?" I had forgotten. He asked what I was doing and when I explained my Artsy Fartsy Saturdays program, he said "I am so proud of you."

As we were leaving Pat on the dance floor, I got a great idea: maybe she'd come to Artsy Fartsy and teach the kids drama. They would eat her up just as everyone else does.

Happy birthday, Pat, you're as vivacious and inspiring as ever. I am grateful for your friendship.

• When have I been inspired by someone?
• Whom do I know that is so inclusive and makes everyone want to participate?
• What other leadership qualities do I admire?
• How has a place and its people strongly affected me?
• How do I see Spirit's hand in those relationships and experiences?


Pat is
commanding
AND
generous

You can't
say no to her,
nor do you
want to

because whatever
the task or challenge,
she will make certain
it is enjoyable

as her zest
for life is
contagious

Listen to this post:

Re-setting myself with prayer

[Recording located at end of post]

 How can one day be filled with creativity, wonder and awe and the next with tears and doubt? Yesterday, when I finally set aside almost a full day to revise the book I have been carrying in my heart for years, inspiration struck as the result of a recent opening and I drafted a folk tale. One of my spiritual friends suggested it awhile back. It was a wonderful process and I was happy with the result; it adds another layer to my work, perhaps the most cohesive yet.

Today, I’ve been bouncing here and there somewhat prayerfully. I declared on my retreat to begin each day in my studio with a candle and prayer. I lit the candle, quasi-prayed, then got busy listing and charting all of the directions I am pulled: workshops, blogging, polishing my book, Artsy Fartsy, a new freelance possibility, helping grow my husband’s business.

It has been the complete opposite of yesterday’s experience. It is some of the work I had hoped to complete while on retreat, but the flu struck and there wasn’t much to do but rest. That’s the command I got one morning after a sleepless, fevered night. Still, I bundled up, pulled my boots on and headed to the labyrinth, then the peace trail. I had not yet had the chance to hike and, by golly, I was determined to do so. Arriving at the stream, I carefully planted my boot in the strongest-looking mud to cross and, surprisingly, ended up on the fudgy bank, seated. I pulled myself up, inspecting just how muddied I was, and ventured on, restless. This was just not a day for hiking. I should have listened to God in the first place.

That’s what I did yesterday, when the writing went so smoothly and what I neglected today, when I have been scattered and unproductive, except to drive myself crazy.

Begin EVERY day

with a candle & lamp; prayer

the scrawling on the green chalkboard reminds me. That doesn’t mean light the candle and get busy. Light the candle and have tea, light the candle and read. It means precisely what it says. Not even light the candle and blog.

So, now I’m back after sitting quietly in prayer. My questions aren’t answered, but my heart is at peace. I emptied myself and just sat, waiting on God, feeling her presence and my anxiety drain.

Where does this pattern of pushing originate? Pushing to get things done, tick one more item off the list, watch the clock and be so bound? In prayer, time stands still as if not a constraint, assuring me that I don’t have to rush. So I don’t.

• What happens when I begin my day with prayer?

• When I don’t?

• How do I create time for communion with Spirit?

• How does that prayer time shape my days?

• When I am out of sorts, how does prayer balance me?

so much on

my plate,

it seems

especially

after a retreat

and another few

days fighting

the flu

so much to

sort out

got to get to

it, get it done

so I can move

on

then I’m

stuck,

moving back

and forth and

accomplishing

nothing

until I re-set

myself

with prayer

Listen to this post: