Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Stars and Stripes
There is a flag flying proudly on my front porch today.
It is a flag that once flew over a military post where my son was stationed.
He is in the Navy.
There is another flag hanging on my son's wall, though he is not there to look at it. That one was handed to my mother at my father's funeral. My father served in the Tenth Mountain Division of the Army in World War II.
I have attended many funerals - too many - and they are filled with such a mix of emotions. Great sadness in spite of the relief of suffering. Near hysteria at the loss of one too young or whose life is taken violently or tragically. Disbelief at the incredulity of a suicide. It is so hard to stand in the presence of such deep, true emotion ....
But, have you ever stood at a graveside when a flag is handed to a loved one?
I have and what I remember is the heart swelling ache of pride. The heart swelling rush of gratitude to that person who sacrificed his or her comfort, safety and family time for ME.
That is how it feels when I watch a flag go from white gloved hands to the trembling hands of the person receiving it. This person that we are preparing to say goodbye to forever, served our country for ME. And I am the one that benefits from that sacrifice. I am the one that gets to walk away from the cemetery and live a life of freedom, a life pursuing joy ( my greatest happiness) because of this person who we are about to lower into the ground.
And I am always humbled as I watch the Stars and Stripes change hands.
Happy Birthday America, yes. But more than that, thank you to each and every man and woman who continues to serve under the Red, White and Blue. Thank you for your sacrifice for ME. May I live a life that is deserving of it.
Be safe today, come home soon. And for those who served before and are gone, rest in peace.
It is a flag that once flew over a military post where my son was stationed.
He is in the Navy.
There is another flag hanging on my son's wall, though he is not there to look at it. That one was handed to my mother at my father's funeral. My father served in the Tenth Mountain Division of the Army in World War II.
I have attended many funerals - too many - and they are filled with such a mix of emotions. Great sadness in spite of the relief of suffering. Near hysteria at the loss of one too young or whose life is taken violently or tragically. Disbelief at the incredulity of a suicide. It is so hard to stand in the presence of such deep, true emotion ....
But, have you ever stood at a graveside when a flag is handed to a loved one?
I have and what I remember is the heart swelling ache of pride. The heart swelling rush of gratitude to that person who sacrificed his or her comfort, safety and family time for ME.
That is how it feels when I watch a flag go from white gloved hands to the trembling hands of the person receiving it. This person that we are preparing to say goodbye to forever, served our country for ME. And I am the one that benefits from that sacrifice. I am the one that gets to walk away from the cemetery and live a life of freedom, a life pursuing joy ( my greatest happiness) because of this person who we are about to lower into the ground.
And I am always humbled as I watch the Stars and Stripes change hands.
Happy Birthday America, yes. But more than that, thank you to each and every man and woman who continues to serve under the Red, White and Blue. Thank you for your sacrifice for ME. May I live a life that is deserving of it.
Be safe today, come home soon. And for those who served before and are gone, rest in peace.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Generations
Though I was her labor nurse for three of her four children I do not know her well. I knew the set of her broad shoulders, the shine of her beautiful brown hair and the lilt in her voice but when I saw her walking down the hall to room 279 I did not know that her daughter was in labor.
I only knew her now-grown children through their medical care. First immunizations and well baby check ups. Later, appendicitis and pneumonia. And now, labor.
I went to greet her. She looked tired. Determined, but tired. And happy to see me. Mothering a laboring child is a tight rope walk. You must be strong but tender. Compassionate but not timid. And not a sissy. Being in labor yourself is easy compared to a tending a laboring daughter who is frightened and in tears.
Yes, she was happy to see a familiar face, the face of another mother.
I rubbed her shoulders as I smiled my hello. She smiled her beautiful smile back at me as she returned to her daughter and the labor nurse who would tend her.
It was a long day. Others gathered to wait. A woman, older than I, who would become a great grandmother this day, sat on a stool out side the hospital room door. She was fervently willing birth to come, and, finally, birth did come.
It is a beautiful sound, the sound of labor ending and a new life beginning.
I heard it from the hall. I went in to see a pink cherub of a baby lying in the crib surrounded by an exhausted mother and grandmother, a relieved great grandmother and a room full of siblings that I had seen come into the world.
Three generations standing at a bedside gazing at a baby. Happy. Life is good.
I only knew her now-grown children through their medical care. First immunizations and well baby check ups. Later, appendicitis and pneumonia. And now, labor.
I went to greet her. She looked tired. Determined, but tired. And happy to see me. Mothering a laboring child is a tight rope walk. You must be strong but tender. Compassionate but not timid. And not a sissy. Being in labor yourself is easy compared to a tending a laboring daughter who is frightened and in tears.
Yes, she was happy to see a familiar face, the face of another mother.
I rubbed her shoulders as I smiled my hello. She smiled her beautiful smile back at me as she returned to her daughter and the labor nurse who would tend her.
It was a long day. Others gathered to wait. A woman, older than I, who would become a great grandmother this day, sat on a stool out side the hospital room door. She was fervently willing birth to come, and, finally, birth did come.
It is a beautiful sound, the sound of labor ending and a new life beginning.
I heard it from the hall. I went in to see a pink cherub of a baby lying in the crib surrounded by an exhausted mother and grandmother, a relieved great grandmother and a room full of siblings that I had seen come into the world.
Three generations standing at a bedside gazing at a baby. Happy. Life is good.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Moon
What is it about the moon?
Of all the things in nature that are commercialized- leaves, sea shells, flowers made of every product from silk to resin, it is moons that draw my attention.
When my late husband, Dennis, was sick and our daughter was leaving for college, he said to her " Don't worry, we will never be far apart, we will always have the same moon. " It might be that - the moon especially from the back yard, hanging in the sky, reminds me of him, but it is more.
The moon is not as hot or as cold feeling as the sun. It feels friendly some how. The man in the moon, playing peek a boo with the clouds on a steely gray night, feels like a play mate.
The sun is fierce and fiery. Sweetest at sunrise and sunset, but the moon is always sweet. It is sweet in its slivery stages, a tiny thread hanging down from above playfully and it is sweet when it is full, a globe of romance pulling us up up up into our best selves.
I stand taller in the moonglow than I do under the brilliance of the sunshine which makes me wilt in the heat and shrink into myself in the cold.
I compete with the sun for my place in the universe but the moon offers me support, a place and time to wrestle with my life choices, to revel in my blessings, to let my heart expand with gratitude.
AHHA! That's it. The moon makes my heart expand with gratitude - I knew it was something. Thank you moon.
Of all the things in nature that are commercialized- leaves, sea shells, flowers made of every product from silk to resin, it is moons that draw my attention.
When my late husband, Dennis, was sick and our daughter was leaving for college, he said to her " Don't worry, we will never be far apart, we will always have the same moon. " It might be that - the moon especially from the back yard, hanging in the sky, reminds me of him, but it is more.
The moon is not as hot or as cold feeling as the sun. It feels friendly some how. The man in the moon, playing peek a boo with the clouds on a steely gray night, feels like a play mate.
The sun is fierce and fiery. Sweetest at sunrise and sunset, but the moon is always sweet. It is sweet in its slivery stages, a tiny thread hanging down from above playfully and it is sweet when it is full, a globe of romance pulling us up up up into our best selves.
I stand taller in the moonglow than I do under the brilliance of the sunshine which makes me wilt in the heat and shrink into myself in the cold.
I compete with the sun for my place in the universe but the moon offers me support, a place and time to wrestle with my life choices, to revel in my blessings, to let my heart expand with gratitude.
AHHA! That's it. The moon makes my heart expand with gratitude - I knew it was something. Thank you moon.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Pancakes, Bacon and Walking in the Rain
They are eleven and two.
He is tall and lanky, and loosing his (baby) teeth faster than the tooth fairy can circle the globe. He is soft spoken and witty. Clever, artistic.
She is still in diapers and has lost her "inside voice"
She shouts her wants and screeches her delights. She bellows her "I love you's"
He unwinds himself from sleep in the pink room that he wants to paint green and reaches for a book hoping to escape my notice.
She chatters in her PortaCrib until I open the door to the yellow room and then raises her arms for some morning love. She wraps her legs around me as I lift her soft,warm, soggy bottomed body to mine.
They both want pancakes and bacon. I knew they would.
Breakfast behind us and the dishes left undone, she demands outside. We don long socks and rubber boots - hers purple, mine green - and lightweight sweatshirts. He disappears inside my bright yellow slicker and grabs the dog leash for the impatiently yapping Buffy Bot.
I open my enormous bright blue umbrella, but she demands her own. She wants dinosaurs, but I proffer cats and, amazingly, she acquiesces. We are a sight, these two granddarlings and I, on this rainy Saturday morning.
"Be careful Gramma, " she warns, " don't walk in the puddles!" "Oh, Nattie, " I reply, "today we CAN walk in the puddles. That is why I invited you over!"
She is two almost three and I am fifty nine almost sixty. We walk hand in hand through every puddle we can find, twirling our umbrellas as we go.
He is eleven almost twelve. He heads in the other direction.
He is tall and lanky, and loosing his (baby) teeth faster than the tooth fairy can circle the globe. He is soft spoken and witty. Clever, artistic.
She is still in diapers and has lost her "inside voice"
She shouts her wants and screeches her delights. She bellows her "I love you's"
He unwinds himself from sleep in the pink room that he wants to paint green and reaches for a book hoping to escape my notice.
She chatters in her PortaCrib until I open the door to the yellow room and then raises her arms for some morning love. She wraps her legs around me as I lift her soft,warm, soggy bottomed body to mine.
They both want pancakes and bacon. I knew they would.
Breakfast behind us and the dishes left undone, she demands outside. We don long socks and rubber boots - hers purple, mine green - and lightweight sweatshirts. He disappears inside my bright yellow slicker and grabs the dog leash for the impatiently yapping Buffy Bot.
I open my enormous bright blue umbrella, but she demands her own. She wants dinosaurs, but I proffer cats and, amazingly, she acquiesces. We are a sight, these two granddarlings and I, on this rainy Saturday morning.
"Be careful Gramma, " she warns, " don't walk in the puddles!" "Oh, Nattie, " I reply, "today we CAN walk in the puddles. That is why I invited you over!"
She is two almost three and I am fifty nine almost sixty. We walk hand in hand through every puddle we can find, twirling our umbrellas as we go.
He is eleven almost twelve. He heads in the other direction.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Petal Shower and The Cardinal
It is so easy to ignore the moments of wonder. And equally easy to stop, just stop, what you are doing and revel in them.
It was dusk - that in between time. The drive from work is short and as familiar as an old shoe.
As I rounded the curve toward town a long stretch of shoulder was polka dotted with snowy white petals. It was both a blanket covering the dull gray concrete of the old country road and an intricate pattern of individual petals each one holding it's place in the design of blossoms that had fallen in the recent rain. I glanced to the right as I drove on.
Church had just ended. I was backing out of the parsonage driveway when the flash of red streaked across my line of vision. A quick glance across the lawn to see a robin sitting fat and happy in the freshly mowed green grass. No, not bright enough. And then, the cardinal swooped down to graze beside Miss Redbreast. I put the old Volvo wagon in park and cut the engine.
The brilliance of the ruby red bird flitting about made my heart quicken. He darted in and out of site, dashing up and diving down. My heart beat faster still but the robin seemed unimpressed with the dance. I waited until the display ended and the bird had flown off into the woods leaving the serene robin behind before turning the key on again.
I wondered as I drove away, my heart filled with gratitude for the beauty of that moment, - do robins give thanks for such wonderment?
It was dusk - that in between time. The drive from work is short and as familiar as an old shoe.
As I rounded the curve toward town a long stretch of shoulder was polka dotted with snowy white petals. It was both a blanket covering the dull gray concrete of the old country road and an intricate pattern of individual petals each one holding it's place in the design of blossoms that had fallen in the recent rain. I glanced to the right as I drove on.
Church had just ended. I was backing out of the parsonage driveway when the flash of red streaked across my line of vision. A quick glance across the lawn to see a robin sitting fat and happy in the freshly mowed green grass. No, not bright enough. And then, the cardinal swooped down to graze beside Miss Redbreast. I put the old Volvo wagon in park and cut the engine.
The brilliance of the ruby red bird flitting about made my heart quicken. He darted in and out of site, dashing up and diving down. My heart beat faster still but the robin seemed unimpressed with the dance. I waited until the display ended and the bird had flown off into the woods leaving the serene robin behind before turning the key on again.
I wondered as I drove away, my heart filled with gratitude for the beauty of that moment, - do robins give thanks for such wonderment?
Monday, May 3, 2010
THE QUEST HOUSE
The Quest House came to be from a dream and a typo. The Lord uses what He must to send the message:) My most treasured gift is the gift of hospitality and I have long been a retreat-ant at various retreat facilities. I can see my self greeting the walking wounded treating them to a sanctuary filled with homemade bread, flowers and a place to heal. And Laugh. Does healing happen without laughter? Perhaps, but it must be very slow. I shared this dream with my writing coach, mary anne radmacher, and in the missive typed " my dream is to own a "Quest house". And so it has come to be. The Quest House currently houses it's root stock in a small office in Red Hook NY that is filled with whimsy and vision, a slow computer and orange curtains. And laughter. Someday there will be a guest house, a garden, a great room. But for now, follow along, share your dreams with me as we write, inspiring ourselves and others and follow our dreams.
In June I will be offering an opportunity to participate in a writing process called RADMACHER FOCUS PHRASE™.
The first session called Wear the WORD, will provide a new way to start your day with Scripture. Using a passage I provide, you will view each day through the lens of THE WORD. At days end you will write three paragraphs about what moments of grace or joy, what trials or tribulations were presented to you and how the "phrase", the Scripture passage, helped you experience them.
I will be posting more in the days ahead and will invite you to share your writing with me.
This process has changed my life allowing me to greet each day with intention. Setting the course instead of riding the wave of work and play without noticing the highs and lows, the ordinary moments of wonder.
Go to maryanneradmacher.net to see the work of my writing coach and partner in this course.
log on often to see the details of registration to start your summer with me and to begin a daily writing practice that will bring a new vision to your life.
Please think about signing up for this writing opportunity. Whether your goal is to establish or revitalize a daily writing practice, to establish or revitalize a daily Scripture reading practice or to establish or revitalize a way of sharing your long neglected gifts of the spirit, I hope you will join me in June for Wear the WORD.
joyfully, beverly kipp
In June I will be offering an opportunity to participate in a writing process called RADMACHER FOCUS PHRASE™.
The first session called Wear the WORD, will provide a new way to start your day with Scripture. Using a passage I provide, you will view each day through the lens of THE WORD. At days end you will write three paragraphs about what moments of grace or joy, what trials or tribulations were presented to you and how the "phrase", the Scripture passage, helped you experience them.
I will be posting more in the days ahead and will invite you to share your writing with me.
This process has changed my life allowing me to greet each day with intention. Setting the course instead of riding the wave of work and play without noticing the highs and lows, the ordinary moments of wonder.
Go to maryanneradmacher.net to see the work of my writing coach and partner in this course.
log on often to see the details of registration to start your summer with me and to begin a daily writing practice that will bring a new vision to your life.
Please think about signing up for this writing opportunity. Whether your goal is to establish or revitalize a daily writing practice, to establish or revitalize a daily Scripture reading practice or to establish or revitalize a way of sharing your long neglected gifts of the spirit, I hope you will join me in June for Wear the WORD.
joyfully, beverly kipp
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