Category Archives: Reflections on Life

Observations About Life

A Slice of Life

09 Wednesday Mar 2016

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She closed her eyes against the dust blowing up the canyon. Windy swirls of sand and dusty debris bit against her skin through the flimsy shirt she’d thrown on at dawn when her uncle yelled into her half-awakeness. “Time to get moving. The cows ain’t waiting’ for you to get prettied up.” Her horse shimmied a bit under her as he navigated the rocky trail.

End of summer…back to school, back to the city and her family in another week. What a wild time she’d had learning to ride horses, getting up early to help with the chickens and other chores. Her muscles ached for weeks and her butt…well she still didn’t think she’d toughened up enough to call herself a cowgirl.

As the canyon opened and sandy soil replaced the rock-strewn wash they’d just ridden through, Sandie rubbed her eyes clear and took in the bluffs far in the distance. The herd grazed on sparse patches of grass, some looking up as the cowboys and city girl spread out to encircle the cattle. This was her first and last cattle drive.

She followed her cousin Wally, a year younger and as cowboy as they come. He was put in charge of her initiation and taught her in his teasing, sarcastic way, how to saddle and bridle Pete. Wally thought it was pretty funny as he watched Sandie’s misadventures through the rough and tumble (major on the tumble) first weeks.

One of the yearlings ran in the wrong direction, so Sandie started after it. Pete tore out faster than she expected making her hold tightly to the saddle horn as she leaned into the gallop, butt bouncing too much for comfort. Uncle Kirk shouted after her in his gruff voice to come back. Sandie felt her face flush. She was trying to help. “Don’t chase her and run her down. She’ll come back on her own to join the herd. You’ll tire her out too early and we have a long ride ahead.”

The summer rolled back in her memory as she turned to rejoin the others, moving the herd to open ground and the journey home to the ranch pastures.

Grandpa took her to town whenever he did the grocery run. The two day round trip on dusty graveled roads was probably her favorite part of the summer. They talked some, but the open window air conditioning made the drive pretty noisy. She loved the smell of the summer heat and the animal smells that she was sure her city friends would pinch their noises at.

Miles City was a real western town, boots and hats on most of the men and a lot of the women. It was nothing like Tacoma. Her grandpa took her straight off to the western shop to buy her jeans, shirts, boots, a hat and belt when Sandie first arrived by train. He smiled as she emerged looking like she fit right in. She smiled remembering how proud he looked.

It was the rodeo in Billings that she loved most. Her older cousin George was team roping. She loved to watch as the cowboys worked together to rope and tie up three legs of the calf. She did feel a little sorry for the calves. But they ran off happily when the rope was released, so she got over it. Best of all, though, was the storytelling, the joking and the cribbage games with Uncle Lee and Grandpa and the others back where they set up their little camp. They were right in the middle of all the other campers who  were competing in some event. Old friends stopped by to talk about the rodeo and life back at the ranch. There was a lot of spitting between stories. It was pretty gross.

Sandie stood in her saddle and rubbed her sore bottom. They had another four or five hours to go. She snacked on some jerky as the summer sun baked the dust into her skin. It didn’t help to try to wipe it away. Her hat sheltered her eyes a bit, but she felt the dryness of the air in her eyes and sweat plastered her hair against her forehead under the hat band. The cows seemed to herd themselves, she thought. All she had to do was ride along beside them.

The one time she put on a dress that whole summer was for the dance at the grange. She was sure her grandpa was hoping she’d fall in love with a cowboy and return to Montana someday. That’s the only reason she could imagine that Tom asked her to go with him to the dance. He barely knew her. He was pretty handsome, though.  She remembered sitting shyly up against the truck door on the long ride to the grange hall. It was out in the middle of nowhere. But, it seemed like the whole country came for the party.

It was kind of a disaster. Tom was a lot older and Sandie had never dated. He tried to get her to learn the two-step, but she kept stepping on his toes  and felt uncomfortable in his arms. He finally asked someone else and left her sitting alone at the table. When the evening ended, he was kind, but eager to leave her at the gate. She was glad the evening was over.

Late in the day as the sun’s  halo left everything golden and sort of glowing, the last gate was opened and the cattle seemed to know they were almost home. They hurried through the opening, pushing and bawling as if in fear they’d be left behind. Sandie closed and fastened the gate as the others shouted their hee-yas and swung their coiled ropes to keep the herd moving toward the home pasture closer to the ranch house and barn. The grass here was greener and more plentiful. The cattle began to find their dinner spots as cowboys swung down from their saddles at the gate before leading their horses to the barn and hay and a good brush down.

Sandie sat on Pete for a bit watching the cows, watching the cowboys, knowing she would soon be on the train for home. It was her first and last round up, her first and last summer on the ranch. She didn’t know that at the time. She did know she loved being related to this family and sat for awhile in her saddle on her horse Pete remembering the summer.

 

 

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Whence Comes Inspiration

10 Wednesday Feb 2016

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A recent writer’s group meeting challenged my big picture view of the craft and processes of writing for publication. The presenters spoke about specific tools and techniques (text formatting and setting goals for completing projects), while  conversation around the topics rolled around those and more personal ideas (building platforms through blogs). I appreciate those whose personal efforts and advice reflect discipline and determination as they set and pursue goals. They have published books and articles (and received some rejection slips) to show for their hard work.

Rose-colored glasses have been set aside as I plunge in to do the hard work of putting thoughts down, following the outline, writing and revising. Progress seems slow… the end far, far away. Each month the adrenaline injection from meeting with other writers entrenched in their own processes energizes me and pushes me forward again. They have given me permission with their encouragement to follow a tangent, to write a related article as a break from the larger project. Part of creating credibility as a professional writer requires submitting writing for a broad audience. After all, what good is writing if not to be read?

Long ago the publisher of my high school yearbook for which I was a co-editor inspired us with pithy sayings. One has stuck in my head ever since: “If you want to be remembered, do something worth writing about or write something worth reading about.” I am aiming for the latter.

Honing my skills gives me courage to keep writing with an end in sight. As other writers have acknowledged, we never know it all. Humility comes naturally for those of us who in our later years are FINALLY doing what we said we would do in our prideful and starry-eyed youth. I have a book in process, articles scheduled and writing to be done. The time has come and now is…

 

“Live Well for the Master”

27 Wednesday Jan 2016

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I’m on the downhill slide of life at the age of 64. A friend recently responded to something I wrote in a note to her regarding this stage of life thinking that I meant I was coasting from here on to the end. The Bible says, “Where there is no vision, the people perish: but he that keepeth the law, happy is he.” Proverbs 29:18 (KJV) The transition from one place of active duty to another does require reassessment. I am in a period of asking God for His wisdom and guidance. So, no, I’m not coasting, just spending time listening and waiting for a vision of what is ahead…before picking up speed on the downhill slide.

My husband will retire this year (well, semi-retire as he still has much to contribute in the industry where he has grown and thrived for over forty years). I’m excited about the idea of spending more time together in the garden, around the house, traveling, serving others, and even collaborating on some writing projects. The question remains: what is my vision, my mission statement, my high calling for the days ahead? How, Lord, will you use my gifts and talents, my life experiences and relationships, to “…not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” Galatians 6:9 (KJV) Admittedly, weariness has set in. Lack of clear vision may be a contributing factor. So, I am spending time communing with My Abba Father, talking and listening, reading and meditating on His word, hesitating from moving ahead until He says go.

I am praying for myself and my husband just as Paul prayed for the church in Colossae. “Be assured that from the first day we heard of you, we haven’t stopped praying for you, asking God to give you wise minds and spirits attuned to his will, and so acquire a thorough understanding of the ways in which God works. We pray that you’ll live well for the Master, making him proud of you as you work hard in his orchard. As you learn more and more how God works, you will learn how to do your work. We pray that you’ll have the strength to stick it out over the long haul—not the grim strength of gritting your teeth but the glory-strength God gives. It is strength that endures the unendurable and spills over into joy, thanking the Father who makes us strong enough to take part in everything bright and beautiful that he has for us.” Colossians 1:9-12 (The Message)

What an encouraging prayer. I want to “live well for the Master.” I love the upbeat tone of this plea…asking for “glory-strength” that “spills over into joy.” Just reading this passage and writing it here inspires me and lifts my spirit to new heights. This deserves attention. These words declare a future of purpose, not without challenges, and promise.

Onward, Christian Soldiers

(Last Stanza)

“Onward then, ye people, join our happy throng,
blend with ours your voices in the triumph song.
Glory, laud, and honor unto Christ the King,
this through countless ages men and angels sing.”

 

Serendipity

05 Tuesday Jan 2016

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Defined once as “one surprise after another,” serendipity punctuates all of our travels. We are not world travelers like some of our friends and relations, but we have taken wonderful vacations all over the northwestern hemisphere. We’ve enjoyed road trips, cruises, rustic camping and luxury accommodations. And there is that one big adventure that took us over land and sea to Norway, some of the north Atlantic island countries, and home by way of Boston before arriving a month later back on the west coast. During every adventure we have been surprised by something that stands out as the pinnacle of the trip, a highlight that we love to share with willing listeners well after we’ve returned home and fallen back into the routines of life. Serendipity: a joyous and unexpected surprise.

Perhaps the fact that we are both friendly people, I more than my spouse, but he as eager to engage in conversation with friendly others, has invited the surprising benefits that come from offering and receiving a smile between strangers. I have always been a fairly self-confident person, but have not always been comfortable with straight on sustained eye contact. As a journalist I have had to write as I interview, thus have had brief eye-contact. As a traveler, I love the eyeball-to-eyeball attention I can give to others. It seems to unlock doors and gently deconstruct walls that we all so often erect. What a joy when suddenly a heart connection blooms and relaxed conversation reveals something, well…serendipitous.

That leads to our “Great North Atlantic Adventure.” At the tail end of a ten-day New England fall colors cruise in 2010, we briefly enjoyed time in New York City where we ordered lunch at a restaurant in the basement of Macy’s. I am a west coast country girl, way out of my element and enjoying the crazy crowded sensory experience of the city. The original wooden escalator in Macy’s tickled me like a child traveling down by magic for the first time.

There we sat in close proximity to other diners of all colors, cultures and languages. Of course I spoke to my nearest neighbors. As it turned out they happened to be visitors to the city as well, on vacation from their home in Oslo, Norway. She had emigrated to Norway from Asia and spoke very little English; he spoke it very well with a wonderful accent. My eyeballs glued themselves to his listening intently to their vacation story and their apologetic inability to help direct us to the subway station for the trip back to our hotel.

We, the older couple, they the young newlyweds, made a friend connection that lasted through email and phone conversations until Vidar surprised us by attending our 40th anniversary party two years after our chance meeting. His wife was unable to join him, but we entertained our Norwegian “son” for a week. Another two years of long-distance communication led to our month-long trip to visit the couple in Norway in 2014. Oh the stories of serendipity I could tell from that trip!

Fast Forward to December 2015.

Recently we drove through a coffee kiosk on our way to visit relatives over the mountains for another weekend adventure. My husband bantered with the young man inside while we awaited our order. Something clicked. Daniel is now another “son” we’ve decided to adopt. He has been over for dinner and plans to bring his girlfriend next visit. His family lives in Alaska, far from where he now lives and goes to school. He so very gratefully accepted our friendship. What fun!

Now it is 2016. Let serendipity reign!

Christmas 1962

09 Wednesday Dec 2015

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Christmas by the river that year held magic in every snowflake, expectation in every new day leading up to that one wonderful morning when the wrapping paper would fly and giggles and hurrahs would erupt. We were a budding young family, still full of innocence and uninhibited joy.

We moved a lot while growing up with our wonderful wanderlust dad. Our mom learned early not to feather her nest too completely for it was inevitable that she would have to pack whatever treasures she accumulated before too long. In 1962 when I turned eleven, we moved with all our worldly possessions packed into a small U-Haul trailer, to Trinity County in Northern California. The two bedroom house (cabin, really) that we rented was perched on a high slope overlooking the raging Trinity River. We moved there in early summertime.

All through the hot months of freedom we kids learned how to respect the rapids and undercurrents while imagining ourselves to be water and wood nymphs. I am the eldest of our troupe of adventurers and as daring as the boys and little girl who followed close on my heels. (There were four of us born in four and a half years, a built in play group.) Our parents spent a lot of time with us, Mom often more observant while our dad splashed and wrestled like one of the kids.

Dad began teaching at the little country school that year. I was a proud girl who sat in the front row, a sixth grader who adored her dad and loved to learn. The other three spent the year together in the lower grades. Dad rose early every morning to drive the school bus, then taught the fifth through eighth grades. It was a creative and challenging time for him, an idyllic time for all of us. I loved getting up early to ride the bus route along the river with him, especially when he’d let me jump out at Junction City Store to buy a treat.

Snow began to sugar-coat our world right around Thanksgiving. Our parents let us play outside until our noses ran and our ears and fingers turned red with the cold. Dad took us on hikes in the woods across the highway where we tromped through the snow with dead branches crackling under our feet. I remember coming upon a sight that inspired my young faith. While the others headed in another direction I stopped to ponder the three red holly berries poking through a snow-covered cross of branches. Yes, it was the season of Jesus birth. I knew about His earthly sojourn. I knew He was the son of God, that He came as a baby out of love for His creation. In that brief moment, I spoke my recognition and affirmation of His love for me.

The lower grades teacher played the piano and prepared us for our Christmas program. Oh how I loved to sing..loudly, enthusiastically. We sang “Oh Holy Night” for the program, I in the chorus and some other lucky girl the solo. It was a joyous occasion. And Christmas would soon arrive.

Every four months while we children grew steadily out of our clothing my mother received an inheritance check. One wealthy grandfather whom she had never met, had left her a sum of money from which the estate doled out quarterly interest checks. New clothes, new toys, a freezer load of food and all was well with the world. And every December first when her check arrived, our mom took great delight in shopping for Christmas.

I remember that Christmas morning unwrapping my Barbie and Ken dolls. I remember that the big package contained a new TV for the whole family. Dad fried Lefse (a Scandinavian flatbread made with potato dough) on the wood stove and we rolled it with butter and sugar, letting the greasy sweetness dribble down our chins. It is a good memory.

My dad is dying this Christmas, my mother gone now for 37 years. I love to remember the good times from those years that we grew from inheritance check to inheritance check, from one adventure to another, one school to another… until it wasn’t fun anymore and life became tense and difficult at home.

I love to remember the times, and they were many, when God gave me a glimpse of His faithful presence, His constant care and love for me. He showed up in the good times and the hard times. I love to remember my parents at their best, in their prime, and how they loved to spend time playing with us. Now, as my dad lingers in his last days, I remind him of those times, those sweet memories when he built in me a deep knowing of the love of God.

Water for the Soul

02 Wednesday Dec 2015

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One wonderful season of our lives, my husband and I loaded up our country kids and moved to the city for six-months. John and I determined that his short-term work assignment out of the area would be a perfect opportunity to give our 5, 8 and 11 year-old children a taste of life that was completely different than our very rustic, woodsy life to that point. Rather than dad being away from us five days each week, we chose to tag along and make an adventure out of it.

The six months rolled out one surprise after another. We learned to keep our garage door closed when the skateboards disappeared. We held our breath every day as our seventh grader found his way along busy city streets to navigate the social structure of an enormous middle school. We learned how to meet and greet our other two on different bus schedules. Life simply was not simple in the city.

We loved living in our condo elbow to elbow with a diversity of neighbors, young and old, foreign and flavorful. We rode our bicycles everywhere that was somewhat safe, through local green spaces that didn’t even resemble our familiar open fields and woodlands. The library only blocks away became a favorite biking destination, and Dairy Queen $1 blizzards a regular attraction in the other direction.

As the children learned what it was like to be city-kids and dad went off to work each day, I began to develop a new circle of friends from the church we had found to attend. One of the women, younger by a few years than I was, intrigued me with her traditional Indian attire, the colorful saris of her homeland. Even more intriguing was her quiet, yet confident demeanor. She walked with head high and shoulders back, a ready smile on her face and eyes that sparkled with a sense that something rich and wonderful waited to be teased out of her.

And so it was. Padmini agreed to let me “sit at her feet,” in a manner of speaking. We met almost weekly for several months at her home where we talked about our faith, our families and about life. Padmini taught me the lessons she had learned about “living water” from the Bible, about the streams that flow in the desert and the trees whose roots go deep and continually bear fruit, even in a season of drought.

I chose Jeremiah 17:7-8 (NIV) as my life verse. “But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. {She} will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit.”

The six months passed too quickly for me. I experienced a season of spiritual abundance at the city church and under the tutelage of my new friend. Just before we moved back home to the country at the end of the school year, Padmini presented me with a ceramic pitcher with this inscription, “Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning.” She had poured out living water from her full cup into my thirsty heart.

God gave me a refreshing gift during that brief sojourn that has carried me through many periods of both abundance and drought ever since. I have learned and continue to grow in the knowledge that God is the source of my refreshment, His word is water for my soul.

 

 

Thoughts on “Wisdom”

27 Tuesday Oct 2015

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John stands fast on the small platform of people I know who possess wisdom. He’s my spouse, my partner and my friend, my counterpoint and my complement. We have lived life together with all the bumps and bruises to show for our sometimes rough and rugged journey. Above all, John has kept us centered with his good common sense and wisdom gained through a lifetime of vigorous physical and mental labor, as a leader of leaders, as “an ambassador of hope” for families in crisis.

Perhaps the hallmark of wise men and women is their ability to listen. Ernest Hemingway said, “I like to listen. I have learned a great deal from listening carefully. Most people never listen.” This is true. I’m reminded often of that old commercial for an investment firm, “When E. F. Hutton talks, people listen.” Listening well is a defining quality of the wise, for when they finally speak, their words and ideas inspire and motivate others to think and behave differently.

The Bible says, “Is not wisdom found among the aged?” (Job 12:12-13) In other verses  elders are instructed to teach the younger and that the younger should respect and honor their elders. At work during one day in John’s 40-year career, one of his co-workers called him Moses to much head bobbing from  others nearby. John leads with care and a wealth of knowledge, but most importantly from a well of wisdom. John listens.

Listening requires patience. Listening demands discipline. Listening takes time. Listening takes self-control and humility, the desire and ability to believe that others have something valuable to contribute, and have a need and right to be heard. Then, having listened well, having considered carefully, having weighed the many points of view and well-spoken thoughts, the wise one speaks, or doesn’t.

“Grey hair is a crown of splendor,” says Proverbs 16:31. I have known some very wise young folks to whom I give undivided attention. And it is worth stating that not everyone with grey hair possesses wisdom. But, wisdom does present itself more often in those seasoned seniors who have chosen to pay attention, live generously and compassionately, enjoy listening to the ideas of others, and who continue to learn as they grow older yet.  John wears his regal crown while he listens well; and then, when necessary, he speaks…and others listen.
―

Historical Perspectives

14 Wednesday Oct 2015

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A Cowboy Heritage

A Cowboy Heritage

I’m reflecting on family connections in a new way today. This summer we attended a first ever family reunion for my mother’s side of the family. What a surprise to see our faces in old family photos in someone else’s albums! I had saved a few of theirs from my mother’s collection of old photos when she died so many years ago. At long last we not so distant relatives came face to face, surprised by resemblances, shocked by aging changes, delighted to share old stories and tell new ones.

The disconnect came about when both my mother and her father died in the same year. Our “cowboy” grandpa had really been our only link to that side of the family. My mother’s mother died shortly after giving birth and the baby had been shuffled from relative to relative for the first few years. She eventually became the responsibility of her grandmother who did her best to raise a reportedly feisty girl who grew into a beautiful and “scrappy” teen, according an estranged step-sister who told us some favorite stories of our mother’s young adult antics.

We visited our grandfather on the southeastern Montana ranch a few times when we were young. Grandpa visited us once a year at Christmas, descending from the train with his leather belt and silver buckle slung low below his beer belly and walking with legs bowed by numberless years of riding the range. Once I was invited to spend a summer on the ranch when I was 15. I’m pretty sure my grandfather hoped to marry me off to a cowboy before the end of the summer. It didn’t work.

As we five siblings grew into adulthood our fractured family and personal pursuits overshadowed our diminishing relationships. I was only 25 when my grandpa died and then our mother passed away suddenly three months later. Even then it didn’t occur to us that something had been severed. Not until the past year.

My youngest sister has felt the loss of family connections to our mother’s family the most acutely. She was only 12 when our mother died. When she asked and I began to dig, we found a cousin of our mother’s and began a correspondence. At last, my two sisters had a face-to-face with this cousin and another invited to join the mini reunion. Thus the family reunion became a plan and a reality.

From that wonderful reconnection with our grandfather’s clan, a new interest and connection with our grandmother’s family began to take shape. Now we enjoy a flurry of Facebook and email communication with people who live all over the US and who share our ancient history, have added us to their expanding genealogies and who have embraced us as eagerly as we have sought them out. We look alike, share similar interests and talents. We all have stories of tragedy and triumph, joy and sadness. I so love hearing about their life journeys, commiserating when our lives mirror each others, rejoicing in their accomplishments and they in mine, and learning more about our mother and why she became the person we grew up knowing.

I didn’t realize how wonderful this connection could be or what I had been missing all these years. Now I know. This feels right…connected to my past and my present through the diverse family that shares it with me.

Joy is a Choice

13 Tuesday Oct 2015

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Coffee on my back patio sets the stage for most days. A joyous, raucous concert of rising and falling bird song delights me. Squirrels travel and chatter along the overhead highway of interlaced oak branches that bracket a view of the western mountains. I meditate and reflect in those moments trying to block out the list of “to-dos” that attempt to squander away my morning peace. It is in those precious always too brief moments that my spirit revels in the beauty of life, the fullness of the my blessings and the treasure of family and friends.

Life inevitably unwinds us into busyness. Those early moments when I claim joy as my halo, my crown of identity, allow me to walk through the day with a sense of transcendence, a calm sense of sanctuary even when assaulted with trials and unforeseen challenges. As one who tends to live passionately, establishing joy as my framework early in the day keeps me in balance, prevents breakdowns or emotional faceplants. I’m choosing to create a place of peace about me…in my home, in my car, in the space that surrounds me. It is very difficult to be unhappy, unsettled, overwhelmed when peace and joy have settled into my whole being.

Grey clouds of depression and discouragement inevitably will threaten. I wish I could say that I have perfected the morning routine of claiming joy, brushing away the insidious thoughts that steal away my peace. It is like so many things in life that require discipline. It requires purposeful practice. On cold and rainy days, a cozy place on my living room sofa with my Bible open on my lap offers the same opportunity to choose joy rather than fussing, peace rather than fretting. I sometimes forget, rush into the day full charge ahead. Danger looms. Sometimes I can muscle through on my own strength. It is exhausting.

Then comes another morning fresh and new…another day to choose. I choose JOY.

Celebrating Life

16 Wednesday Sep 2015

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Jacque rests uncomfortably in the hospital with her daughter sitting vigilant through the night. Surgery went well, says the doctor. Got all the cancer they could see. Waiting for tests that will show if there is more and what course of treatment may be required in weeks to come. No visitors right now.

The older we get the more often we come face-to-face with the inevitable end of life. Its easy to ignore when we are young and vigorous, full of the future. When the future has a time limit looming we look at life much differently. Each day counts more. Every family event holds more poignancy. Some decisions seem more trivial while others become more urgent.

I love Jacque, my friend, my mentor, my encourager, my sister in Christ. She has a devoted family and large circle of influence. Much prayer has been offered for her healing and return to life in the NOW. There are so many of us wanting her to stick around for awhile longer.

Not long ago we shared sweet memories of a brother-in-law at a gathering in his honor. I learned many things I didn’t know about him. He lived a good life, suffered a long time with chronic and worsening pain. We gladly let him go. Just two years earlier we gathered round Ruby, my husband’s mother who had only the month before turned 99 years old. As we all said goodbye to the shell, the well-used temple, left behind by her heaven-bound spirit, relief and joy and sadness and loss, smiles through tears, celebration and song floated among us in the room. She too lived a good life.

Life is short…an old adage with little meaning until life really is short. I am a grandmother now. Life is short. I want to love the living, love the moments and the days, love the people and the experiences we share. It is time to celebrate life for all its worth. I do believe in the after-life; heaven will be my home someday. But right NOW, I choose to make the most of the time remaining. Get Well, Jacque. Let’s celebrate!