just finished...Victim of Grace

nothing sweeter than a sunny summerish morning to savor these words...(coffee not pictured)

Just finished this gem--Victim of Grace by Robin Jones Gunn. I can't say for sure if I'd love it as much had I not grown up physically and spiritually with Robin's books. This was her story, painted with the same mastery of words that have touched so many lives. I cried, I laughed, I looked back with understanding and forward with hope. I was reminded how intimately God is involved in our lives.

I'll share one story. Robin dreamed of being a missionary. She wanted more than anything to travel to Africa and she applied for a laundry supervisor position at a Kenyan-based mission organization. She was turned down and she was crushed.

Years down the road she could see with clarity that God's dream for her was to use her words, her stories, as the missionaries. His plan was different yet so much better.

Robin did travel to Kenya one day. Adventuring with a Kenyan friend, they drove by a river and saw two women washing clothes in a river. Robin stopped, and she asked one of the women if she could wash clothes for her. The woman agreed (I would guess bemusedly), and this is what Robin wrote after she left the river:

Robin's friend said, "'It was not what you were created to do, was it?"

'No, it wasn't. I can say with full assurance that being a laundry supervisor was not God's will for my life,' I [Robin] smiled back at her.

We ambled on down the rutted road for a stretch, and all I could think was how passionately I wished that every woman could put her hands into the bucket of her unanswered prayers. What a powerful thing it was to hear the affirming echo in my heart that God's ways are perfect. He has plans for us that are bigger than any dream or whim we could ever wish for ourselves."

Sometimes, I think we can see God's fingerprints in our lives better through someone else's story. Whether that be a biography, autobiography, or fiction. This is true for me. I would heartily recommend this book. If we are going to be a victim, let us be victims of grace.

The word grace has surfaced around me as of late. Bubbling and bursting, not to be ignored. God has much to untangle in my performance driven, perfectionistic heart, but I want to feel His grace. Really feel it, know it, soak in it.

Grace.

Grace.

Grace.

Victim of Grace nudged me in the direction I need to walk. Thanks, Robin.

seasonal life..."let the season be..."

I love the four seasons and I'm not merely referring to Vivaldi (which I admittedly adore). I anticipate the coming of each season and I also feel a loss for a season's end. Constant, change like clockwork. I like change and I hate it.

Autumn is my favorite. Bright greens transition to reds, oranges, yellows, burgundies and shades in between. Crisp, cool days, bright sunshine, crunchy leaf piles, pumpkins, apples, fleece hoodies, hiking, and hot drinks on my front porch. Autumn never lasts long enough for me. One early storm with swift, bristly winds can ruin its splendor.

I prefer winter to be the shortest season. I do love winter clothes, stacks of books, hot drinks, soup, cobblers, candles, and watching pudgy snowflakes flutter and swirl and fall through my large picture windows. I like being cold so I can cozy up under more blankets. I love watching my kids romp around in the backyard snow.

Winter often bleeds into spring. Spring often has an identity crisis. New growth breeds hope, fresh non-freezing air fills my lungs, buds appear, birds fill the air with twittering, I start to think toward summer days. I savor the blossoms, my beautiful blossoming trees. These fragrant blossoms are so often taken out by spring storms and vicious winds, winter's reluctant release, but I breathe them in while they last. And, as much as I like blossoming trees, one type of tree in particular smells like rotting garbage. No joke, no exaggeration. I have no regrets when this tree transitions to its summer coat of unscented leaves.

Summer seems like it should be the best, but it's a mixed bag for me. I don't particularly like the heat, I hate mosquitoes and wasps and snakes, I hibernate during bright sun hours. Still, leafy trees and a hedge of bushes return to give me my own Secret Garden. I love sitting and sipping my coffee in my backyard while I read. I love the lingering daylight, swimming, BBQ, baseball and 4th of July. I look forward to cool mornings, cool evenings, summer storms, fresh basil for pesto, bike rides and field trips. Time seems to speed up during summer, it feels more the length of Leap Day, barely existing before it is gone yet again.

In life and in mothering I've heard many thoughts on seasons. Usually the reference is in hopes that a certain season will pass. To mothers of young children, "the longest days and the shortest years," has reached proverb status. Despite the cliche, it's very true.

Leaving that season, I felt a sadness for the little nothings and sweetness that I couldn't bottle up and wondered if I were too overwhelmed to really enjoy it all. I tried. Every season I leave, I feel bereft of something. Changes in my kids, our schedule, our home, my friendships...it hurts. Every season I enter holds uncertainty, but also a knowledge that new joys await, new experiences, new phases for our kids, new paths on our journey. New.

I miss my toddlers' exuberant excitement greeting me at the door, but I don't miss diapers and tantrums and not sleeping well. I want to hug their baby pictures sometimes, but I don't want to return if it means giving up where we are now. 

Our family traveled to New York City last fall for several weeks. At ages 11, 9, and 6, our kids are old enough to take such a trip and have it be amazing. They remember and appreciate it. They won't fall off a subway platform or wander off (we were a little concerned about Belle, being as fearless as she is...). We couldn't have done this trip when they were all pre-elementary school. (Well, we could have if we were totally nuts).

We are in a new season. Some parts are spectacular, some parts challenging, we hit the beautiful and the ugly. It's a different beautiful and ugly than five years ago. Not better, not worse, just different.

This season, ordained for us by the hand of God. Whether it be beauty or desolation, turbulent seas or mind-numbing doldrums...ordained.

Seasonal is defined as: fluctuating or restricted according to the season or time of year.

I've found this so true of life. Fluctuating. Restricted. But not just restricted, restricted according to the season....

Ecclesiastes resonates:

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

2a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;  

3a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;  

4a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;  

5a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;  

6a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;  

7a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;  

8a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

I've been reading Victim of Grace by Robin Jones Gunn. My heart has been encouraged. She writes:

"Why are we caught off guard when the seasons change? We wonder if we've done something to precipitate the loss of the previous abundance and all the vibrant evidences of God's wonder-working power. All of nature willingly surrenders to the changes in the physical universe, yet nothing in our human nature allows us to simply let the season be what it is and trust that the hand of the Great Gardener is still at work in us, carrying out his bigger plan for the world as well as for our lives." 

I have felt these seasonal shifts. I tend to focus on the negative, what I will lose with each passing season. I cannot see what lies ahead, but I can know my God. I can remember all that He has led me through, all the seasons gone past, the many joys and sorrows and I can know that He continues to turn the seasons. 

I will praise Him as Samuel did after Israel defeated the Philistines in battle saying, "Thus far the LORD has helped us." (1 Samuel 7:12)

Beauty awaits on the horizon, seasons changing the world around me, but God does not change and I will walk hand in hand with my Lord toward the horizon, letting the season be.

literature threads, fabric of life

I feel as if I were born wired to love literature and the written word. I was writing stories at age six, I wrote my first book at age eleven (it was not good, by the way). I would devour stacks of books from the library and during summers, I would lavishly read into the early morning hours. Sweet memories indeed. 

Make Way For Ducklings! Boston Public Garden

Literature has woven itself through the threads of my life. I can see a book on my shelf and be momentarily transported to the place where I read it. Non-fiction and especially fiction has met me at crossroads in my life, helped me view my world through another character's eyes, it has helped mold me into the woman I am today.

I remember summer evenings devouring the newest Christy Miller book by Robin Jones Gunn. These characters became a part of my heart. No book series has impacted my life to a greater extent than these treasures.

I read Atonement Child by Francine Rivers curled up on a beanbag in my basement bedroom of the house I lived in during college. I now read this book every year. It pushes my heart to pray, to not become numb to the world around me, to see God's sovereign hand in everything.

I read Canary Island Song by Robin Jones Gunn the second time in a French hotel in Luxembourg City. My dear friend and I had walked the city (one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen) all day in brisk and damp weather. We were chilled. We ordered tea service and curled up under blankets to read our books. I finished it on the train, the Luxembourg and Belgium countryside creating a watercolor painting through the train windows. This is another story that I love. Each time I have read it, it speaks to my heart in a different way. And it makes me want to visit the Canary Islands....

tea in Luxembourg and Rhubarb my travel polar bear...

the lovely, terraced Luxembourg City

I read Pollyanna Grows Up (sequel to Pollyanna) by Eleanor H. Porter while visiting my brother in Boston. I walked down Commonwealth Avenue to the Public Garden and could picture Pollyanna's stroll and world perfectly. The story is so very sweet and it captivated me.

Boston's Public Garden

Commonwealth Avenue..."Comm Av"

Brownstones on Commonwealth Ave.

I read Rose In Bloom by Louisa May Alcott (sequel to Eight Cousins) sitting along the North Shore of Lake Superior where my husband and I celebrated our 10th anniversary. As the waves lapped against the rocky shore, we sat and read, chatted intermittently and ate our take-out lunches. It was a beautiful day accented by a beautiful story. A pristine moment.

The North Shore of Lake Superior

I read An Old-Fashioned Girl by Louisa May Alcott curled up in my over-stuffed chair, covered in blankets on a cold winter evening. I wasn't expecting to get pulled in, but I just had to finish it. My husband came down at one point to see if I was coming to bed. I pretended to be asleep, so he would leave me alone. Yes, I did just write that. He went back upstairs and I finished the book by about three in the morning. Guilty.

This is a sampling, I have so many more. Moments with my husband, my kids, my friends, my family, and by myself. I've heard that the sense of smell is the strongest memory, I would probably agree, but for me, literature life moments are a close second. Pristine moments, carefree moments, introspective moments, cathartic moments, they are all sacred to me.