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Glimpses from the first week of September

Calendar pageI don’t think of myself as a Monday through Friday kind of person, but I must be. When a Monday holiday happens like it did this week with Labor Day, it really throws me for a loop the rest of the week. I am disoriented about what day it actually is. To make this week even more off kilter, I was sick on Wednesday and out of the office on Thursday at a conference. So I am just trying to think about what happened in the past Monday through Friday cycle. Amazingly enough, there were sweet glimpses of the kingdom that came in the most disconnected of places!

Through email, I have been in contact with my first grade teacher, then known as Sr. Mary Amy, and now reintroduced to me as Sr. Joyce Rupp, a prolific and profound author who has blessed many with her poems, books, retreats and spiritual intercessions. I can only offer gratitude to God for this amazing gift. I ordered two of her books, one of which is a daily devotional about the names of God called “Fragments of Your Ancient Name.” The reading for September 4 (yesterday) sums up the glimpses of the kingdom I have had this week:

Irresistible Beauty (Wisdom 7:29)

You have overpowered my heart
In moments of unsuspecting prayer
By slipping into my fat distractions
And quietly closing my mind-door.
You have abruptly stunned me
In those moments with creation
When a look, a sound, a touch
Of the ordinariness before me
Breathed its adoration of you.
How blessed I am, how blessed.

Today: I find you in the ordinary beauty I behold.

At a women’s conference with my co-workers just yesterday, I found my nugget of the kingdom in a video about a handful of rice. Have you seen this? Have you heard of this? Amazing! You should watch it here:

http://vimeo.com/16288195

The poorest of the poor in Mizoram, India, giving from what little they have back to the kingdom. They don’t come to church as consumers seeking to be entertained, to be taught, to receive services like weddings or funerals. They come out of gratitude and in thanksgiving to the one who meets all their needs: Give us today the bread that doesn’t run out.

At a retirement ceremony for a man I have come to know at church and call a friend, I experienced the love that others have for him. How I know Jeff is how others know him as well: a man with a deep commitment to those who have served, a heart of compassion for those he works with and those he works for, a wicked sense of humor, a way that invites everyone in and keeps no one out. A man who follows the greatest commandment to love the Lord with all his heart, soul, mind and strength and the one just like it, to love his neighbor as himself.

I have watched parents this week find their prodigal son and receive him into their arms as he left a jail cell, and then proceed to drive him miles from home to take up residence in a place where he can get the help he needs.

I have sat with another mother whose son has just lost a friend in a very avoidable way. And I pray for that young man’s family in their loss, and for all of his friends who will learn a hard lesson about life: our choices do matter. There are consequences and they are hard. But we have spaces to grieve together and God joins us there.

I have welcomed my brother home from his adventure of a lifetime in the desert of Nevada and know that he has participated in something that his heart and soul thirsted for that could only be found in that dry land.

I have seen another sister off with her beloved and their antique tractors to drive across a bridge in a state 1500 miles from where they live to pay homage to a more innocent time in our country, when we didn’t take simple pleasures for granted but celebrated them.

I have been loved by a husband who works hard all day and then comes home to listen to all this pour out of my head and heart. And even when it doesn’t make sense to anyone but me, still listens and shares the words I need to hear: “I love you, Julie. You’re not crazy. You have a big heart.”

“The ordinariness before me.” Indeed.

Thy kingdom come. Monday through Friday. Sunday and Saturday, too. Every day. In everything. Always and forever. Amen.

Stress and Security

The Solid RockToday started with a trip to see my dermatologist. I just love her. She always has a smile for me and looks me directly in the eyes, her gaze never moving from mine: “How’s it going today, Julie?” She seriously wants to know. She knows that my alopecia causes me alarm when those spots of baldness start as small dime-sized circles on my scalp and then converge into dollar-sized circles; not the current quarter-sized dollar coins, but the old much larger silver dollar size.

It’s been happening again. The hair falls out and leaves those patches. I ask Steve to check them for me and he does. He tells me there are lots of new hairs coming in! But all I see is scalp. So I went to see Dr. Finnegan today.

She said the same thing. “There are lots of new hairs coming in! They are white so it appears that all you are seeing is scalp. There is one new active patch. What would you like me to do?” Calmly. Professionally. She is concerned for my well-being and I just love her for it. I said, “Please give me the steroid injections!” Never in my growing up years would I have volunteered to get a shot of anything, for anything, but my vanity about my hair says, “Bring it on!”

Before we get to the shots, she asks me about my stress. Do I have any? I never really know how to answer this because I don’t think I feel stress. Every-day life is what I call it.

There is caring for Jana and meeting her needs. (She had a seizure on Sunday morning and fell. I am sure another is coming because they seem to come in pairs. Please say a prayer for her continued safety.) But she and I have walked this journey for 31 years together.

There is our ongoing search at church for a new senior pastor –and boss – for me. I really have stopped worrying about that. It will happen in God’s timing and I am really enjoying Rich, our interim. He and I have arrived at a place of friendship and love. Fourteen months ago I was stressed about this, but not now.

My sisters are stressed about my upcoming travel back to Lebanon and Syria. I wish I could relieve them of that, but I can’t. I did have a wonderful conversation with Rich today about the trip and what is going on there currently. He said he would hate to see me on the news… You had to be there. It was warm, funny and heartfelt.

I am feeling stress about the pace of the addition to the house for Jana. There is nothing I can do about it, however. I don’t know how to erect framing or put up drywall, install windows, run cables, or anything else that would help. I am the accounting side, not the construction side. So I try to be patient and cheer at every advance we make. We’ve got a foundation! We’ve got framed walls and roof (mostly)! Let’s see what happened today!

So I got my injections and left knowing that the hair will grow back. It always has, in its time. And it will probably fall out again. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

And now this afternoon those things are making me reflect on our staff bible study, which today was chapter 6 of the book of Revelation. The verses about the four horsemen of the apocalypse: no stress there. War! Famine! Pestilence! Death! The ongoing, historical repetitive results of not learning from what happened before. (Will we ever get this?)

The question we were asked to begin was, “Where do you find your security?” And some answers were “the gun I keep in my home” and “the neighborhood watch” and “my bank account.”

But what came to my mind was what Marilyn tells us when we travel and what Barbara always emphasizes on those trips: The safest place to be is in the will of God. And I have really come to believe that.

All my life I’ve been striving to do the right thing, say the right words in prayer, keep the right attitude, as if that was what my father wanted. All he wants is my obedience: love him with all my heart, my soul, my mind and my strength, and that I love my neighbor as myself. It’s taken me so long to learn that lesson.

And out of that flows just one big “thank you” for the stress, the burden, the weight that is lifted from my back in the process. I sing out in worship on Sundays because I belong to that one and I am so grateful to be called child of God.

And that is the only place I find security. And then I offer a prayer, “Thy will be done,” and hope that I am in the flow of that will that is not my own.

“Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash.”  Matthew 7:24-27

My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness, goes the old hymn. And that is where my hope is. That is where my faith is. And that is where my love comes from. And because of that my stress is relieved, indeed, it is lifted from me. And it is the only place where I find security. Not in guns, not in armies, not in my bank account, not in the riches of this world or the promises of people.

“I dare not trust the sweetest frame, but wholly lean on Jesus’ name.” That is a solid rock!

And so my security is walking with my Lord in his way, not mine.

In Thanks for the Garden

Raspberries on the plantThe language of farmer is all through that book
It starts in a garden. Just take a look!
He is the vine, we branch out from him
Beating swords into plowshares,
Making good from what’s grim.

It’s how we’re created
To plant and to grow
Pluck up what is planted
Gather seed and re-sow.

This season for us there’s been rain from above
Our garden’s been watered
Our garden’s been loved.

The cherry tree burst into glorious flower
The fruit it produced, now a jelly jar tower!
The tomatoes we harvested are the colors of dawn
Red, orange and yellow, now jam have become
The raspberries we picked stained our hands berry red
Their stalks full of stickers snagged our arms and they bled
But now cooked with sugar they too line the shelf
Sweet and delicious, I’ll say so myself!

And though we don’t grow them
We think grapes are fine
And we’re thankful for those who do…and make wine!
In the late summer sun
In sweet Sabbath rest
We lift our glasses in gratitude
We are so blessed
To have a creator who loves us this way
Who gave us the garden, who gave us this day.

Amen.

Surprise

My poor husband. He is the victim of the random thoughts that go through my head every day. They are only random when they pop out, however. There is definitely a flow of thoughts in my brain that connect together for me. Sometimes, the last one just begs to be spoken aloud.

Last night was just the latest in a long series of those spoken thoughts. “What’s the first word you remember learning?” I asked innocently. I actually have an answer for that. I know I learned many words in my journey of alphabet to words to sentences to reading. We all remember “See Dick run,” right? But the first word I actually remember learning is surprise.

First grade, Christ the King Catholic Church in Omaha, Nebraska. Sr. Mary Amy was my teacher and I have the clearest memory of her writing that out on the chalkboard. (Remember chalkboards? Sorry, random thoughts streaming again…)

Surprise

I remember I couldn’t read it at first. I tried to sound it out because that is what we did in 1965. And then Sr. Mary Amy read it out loud: surprise! What a great word to have at my fingertips! Who doesn’t like a surprise?

I realize there can be bad surprises, like when you get a call after midnight that wakes up your roommate who angrily comes to your room to say your sister is calling from Colorado and when you get on the phone you hear that two of your other sisters have been hit by a train. That is a bad surprise.

Or when you’re seven years old and everyone is gathered in the kitchen of your house waiting for your dad to come home from the hospital and tell everyone that your mom is not coming home because she just died. Again, a very bad surprise.

First wedded kissBut there are good, even wonderful surprises as well. Like when the handsome man who was the first to hold your hand (at the ripe old age of 42) after taking you on your first date, leans over and gives you your first honest romantic kiss. That one stayed with me for a long time. A good surprise.

Or when that same amazingly wonderful man gets down on his knee on your 43rd birthday seven months later and gives you a ring that comes with a question. I said “yes,” but not until after I made him pinch me and repeat the question. That was a GREAT surprise!

The reason for writing this down today is because of the surprise that blogging brought me just yesterday.

My Aunt Carolyn is a Franciscan nun. I usually call her SAC, which stands for Sr. Aunt Carolyn, as she was a sister before she was my aunt. She reads my blog and encourages me with the most wonderful emails. She even gives me treasures to write about. Well, yesterday she sent me this email:

Julie the other day I was reflecting on a few things important to me and one of them was the blog you had about your First Communion and the Sisters at Christ the King.This Sister Joyce Rupp is a famous author and has written many books (you would love them) and a national speaker. So as I wanted to receive her free newsletter that I just learned about I sent my request as I saw in a book I was reading, etc. and so used that opportunity to ask if she might have been the Sister or one of them from back then. Remember we did have different names, etc and I had always heard that after Jean died the Sisters brought food to your house…the rest was history. I thought you would be interested to learn she remembers you as I had not mentioned your name only the name Prescott…What do you think? Check out her books – Google: Sister Joyce Rupp and you will be surprised….Take care, Love, SAC

Attached to that email was this one from Sr. Joyce to SAC:

Yes, I taught at Christ the King for two years, in the ’60’s.  I recall having Julie Prescott in one of my classes during those two years.  Sr. Louise Genest was the principal then. A fine woman and would have been very kind to George.

Abundant peace, Joyce

So indeed, I went to Sr. Joyce’s website and there was her picture. And here I was, looking into the eyes of my first grade teacher. Fifty years later. Surprise!

I wrote her an email – surprise! – to be sure it was Sr. Mary Amy, and she wrote me back. Indeed, it was her:

I read your recent blog on your first communion and it touched my heart. Isn’t memory a marvelous gift? How you can go back to a moment that reached into your heart and remains there to bless you even now.

And I discovered that she is a woman of words, of poetry, of compassion, of a deep spiritual walk. She is a woman of God who was an example and teacher to me fifty years ago, and will be even now. Her poetry is beautiful. You can read a piece here:

http://www.joycerupp.com/cupofourlife.html

I am so grateful for a God who would surprise us by joining our human journey, invite us to the table of grace and forgiveness, suffer for our brokenness, give us memory as a marvelous gift. It is a blessing.

And the thing about that table is that he meets us there in the bread and the cup. “My body, broken for you. My blood, shed for you.” In communion with all the saints and all the sinners who show up at that invitation, he meets us.

From my mother, through Sr. Mary Amy and the other Servants of Mary at Christ the King, by and through my wonderful Sr. Aunt Carolyn, and with and through my best friend and husband Steve, I am reminded over and over again that I am loved by an amazing God. We are in communion, all of us, together.

And that is no surprise.

 

 

The Tree

The hole in the maple tree, framed by the window of the addition, August, 2014.

The hole in the maple tree, framed by the window of the addition, August, 2014.

President Gerald Ford died December 26, 2006. One of the things my dad and I agreed on in the realm of presidential politics was that we both had great respect for this man. I wasn’t old enough to vote for him in the 1976 election because I didn’t turn 18 until December that year. And at that time I would have doubled my dad’s vote by voting for Gerald Ford. (For the sake of honesty and self-reflection, four years later I voted for Ronald Reagan over Jimmy Carter and have always regretted it. I beg forgiveness to this day from my liberal friends. What did I know? My dad thought Reagan was the guy and that was good enough for me.)

But I digress. I remember that date because my dad and I reminisced about his presidency in those days after Christmas and the way he served humbly in that office after the resignation of Nixon and the scandal of Watergate. He was a good man, born in Omaha, a veteran, and just a quiet servant. He and my dad shared that same story. We both wanted to watch the funeral services that were carried on the national media in the days after his death.

I also remember those last days of 2006 because of the tree. We had a large double- or split-trunk pine tree that grew right outside of our family room on Happy Hollow. It must have been 75 feet tall. It was majestic. It shaded that portion of our patio and house. It used to have a twin right next to it that split in two during a summer storm in 2003, which we had to take down after that. But this magnificent tree stood in that spot until December 31, 2006.

Steve standing by the root system of the pine tree, January 1, 2007.

Steve standing by the root system of the pine tree, January 1, 2007.

It had been a very wet end of the year, mostly rain, and I’m sure the ground was not frozen. Sometime during the night or early morning as the calendar page turned to a new year, there was a large crashing noise outside. Due to the darkness, we couldn’t see a thing so we went back to bed. The rain had turned to snow overnight and in the morning, the pine tree was stretched out its full length to the south. It must have had enough extra weight in its boughs and branches – so many drenched needles! – that gravity just said, “You can’t stand here anymore.” Gravity being a law and all, the tree obeyed. Uprooted. The path of its fall was toward another pine in the corner of the yard, and the two trunks of the large tree lined up on either side of the smaller tree and took off all its branches…and also took out part of the neighbor’s fence.

The uprooted pine, the stripped pine and to the left of the tip of the tree, the neighbor's damaged fence. January 1, 2007.

The uprooted pine, the stripped pine and to the left of the tip of the tree, the neighbor’s damaged fence. January 1, 2007.

A fence can be fixed, and we did repair it. The trees are another story. I weep at the thought of a tree that large that had probably seen years back to the administration of Warren G. Harding. It had stood through storms that had lashed it and pulled off branches, distributing pine needles and pinecones all around. But that night of continued rain-turned-to snow and small winds had finished it.

Jana and I watched Gerald Ford’s funeral services on January 2, 2007, as a local contractor cut up the tree and hauled it away. Such sadness on two counts, I called my dad and we shared our sorrow.

On April 23, 2007, my dad George passed away, with six of his children by his side. We sat with him for his final thirty hours on this earth, listening to every breath until there was only one more and then it was done. He passed quietly in the early morning hours. There was no crashing sound like the tree had made. Just no more breathing and he was gone.

We had a wonderful memorial service for him three days later and I had the privilege of sharing about his life. I had great notes in front of me, but I improvised the beginning a bit to stop myself from crying too hard. I told a joke we had shared with him over and over during those thirty hours. “Where do you find a turtle with no legs?” And I shared about our mutual respect for Gerald Ford who had died just those three and a half months previously. It was a wonderful farewell for the best dad ever.

And then we planted a tree, a maple, in that spot where the pine had stood. In seven short years it has grown into a majestic forty-foot tall giant that provides that same shade to the patio and family room. It seems impossible that it could have grown so big and tall in seven short years, but it has.

Two years ago, another summer storm came barreling through. The rain poured, thunder crashed, lightning flashed, and the winds blew cruelly. A huge crash in the early evening took us to the window. Oh, the horror! A huge limb had cleft from the trunk of this memorial maple and was draped across the fence. I just cried. “My dad’s tree!”

That's the maple. The hole is on the other side and there is not enough room between the tree and the addition.

That’s the maple. The hole is on the other side and there is not enough room between the tree and the addition.

Now, two years later, it seems that we have to take the tree down. It’s too close to an addition we are adding on for Jana. Where that branch came off – even though it appears to be healing itself – there is a hole where insects and rot have started to kill it from the inside. At some point in time, gravity will call it down from the weight of its beautiful, full top. I know I will weep again at such a loss and remember my dad and how we remembered Gerald Ford together.

But I know both of those men are in a better place, telling stories of their younger years together. Mr. Ford is probably saying to my dad, “Couldn’t you have kept that girl as a registered ‘R’? Why did you let her drift so far to the left? Tree hugger…” My dad will probably just smile and say, “That’s the irony. We raise them to make their own choices…and they do. But she did like you!”

And then I will think, “Where do you find a turtle with no legs?” And I will answer, “Right where you left him.” Tell the joke. FInd the laugh. Memories bring smiles. Life goes on. Storms will continue to rage, literally and metaphorically.

And we will plant another tree.

Wholeness & Healing

Renewal. Healing. Prayer.

Michael Moore's avatarPastor Michael Moore's Blog

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I took the above picture during a week-long contemplative retreat at St Bernard’s Monastery in Cullman, Alabama.

The reason for the title? Besides the fact that we will be having a service for wholeness Sunday night at the church I serve? Besides headlines from Ferguson, MO and places like Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, Liberia? Besides the vitriol I see too often on the pages of Social Media?

Listening to the speech that Martin Luther King, Jr delivered on this day 51 years ago made me think about a lot of things.

The years pass and yet the dream is still out of reach… Hopeless?
The fact that the dream is still alive in growing pockets around the world… Hopeful!

When I need to renew… When I need to be in God’s healing place despite the messiness of life… I go…

To woods and trails such as the one pictured above…
To…

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Watching the news

Micah 6 8We started the day here in Omaha with news from overnight. There was an attempted robbery at a Wendy’s not far from our home. The police responded and fired at the suspect because he had a gun and he shot first. (I am not finding any fault here with the police. I believe they were firing in self-defense.) The suspect was killed. His name was Cortez Washington.

Another man was also killed. The sound man from the television “Cops,” which has been riding along with our police department, was the victim of a police bullet as well. It was totally accidental and everyone is devastated by this, including the police officers who had come to think of him as their friend as they spent the summer together. His name was Bryce Dion.

Both deaths break my heart today, as I am sure they break the heart of God. There are so many deaths due to gunshots in our community and in our country. It just doesn’t happen like this in other places. So many lives lost, so many families with empty places at their tables and empty spaces in their hearts.

The other thing that makes me so sad is that we even have shows like “Cops.” Why is the reality of every day law enforcement considered entertainment? These are not documentaries. Our police chief said he agreed to this because he wanted the citizens of Omaha to have access to how our department does their job in a professional manner. Transparency. This is how it happens in real time. We have nothing to hide. And that is all well and good; it is good public relations to let citizens see how hard our police officers work and the dangers they face. They should be protected and respected as they protect and serve.

But Bryce was just doing his job too, and that’s the part I don’t understand, because in the end this was a commercial show being recorded for entertainment purposes. It would be edited, broadcast with commercial breaks (probably for some drug we should ask our doctor about or beer or some new movie), and then we would turn off the television and forget about it until next week’s exciting episode.

I think that is how we watch the news these days too. The horrors of war and earthquakes and Ebola epidemics capture our attention for the briefest of moments and then we move on. Or we get a twisted picture of all people of a place (like Syria or Iraq) based on the very small part of a much larger story that we get fed to us. It scares us. We overreact. We want to build our own arsenals because ISIS IS COMING! Right?

The other communication I had first thing this morning was an email from my sister. I love my sister and she loves me too. That was the point of her email. She is worried and scared for me and Steve to return to Lebanon and Syria this November.

I’ve been thinking long and hard about writing these thoughts down and sending them your direction. I love you, you’re my sister, but I fear more and more for your safety in your travels abroad. I respect your passion in your beliefs and am proud of you and the things you do. But the part of the world to which you are going in November is increasingly SO dangerous, I felt the need to express my overwhelming fear for your safety and that of Steve and everyone with which you travel.  You are an intelligent and compassionate person, and I need to know that you realize the danger in which you place yourself. I need to know that precautions are taken for your safety, and that you have considered the possible consequences.  They take Americans hostage, they detest Christians and kill them. I know I can’t stop you and Steve from going, but please know that we are all afraid while you are gone. I don’t know what to do if something happens. I pray that nothing happens, but the people committing crimes against humanity aren’t going to pay attention to prayers.

I need you to know that I’m afraid, and I love you.

They take Americans hostage. Yes, they have, but many more hostages are people who look and speak just like them. I am still praying for the release of two Syrian archbishops, His Grace Yohanna Ibrahim of the Syriac Orthodox Church and His Grace Boulos Yazigi of the Green Orthodox Church. They were kidnapped April 24, 2013, near Aleppo and have not been heard from since.

They detest Christians and kill them. Yes, some do, but they really hate anyone who doesn’t follow their twisted ideology including their own Sunni brethren. More Muslims have been killed in these wars than any other group of people. And the vast majority of Muslims love their Christian neighbors. They have lived side by side for centuries in peace.

But this is what we understand from the news. We watch it. We get disturbed by it. We turn it off. Hey! Football starts Saturday!

I am so grateful for a police department that protects and serves. I pray for them in the situations they find themselves in, standing between me and my family and those who would hurt us.

I am grateful for news reporters who work hard to get the whole story and present it fairly. I mourn when their lives are taken in the pursuit of bringing that story to me.

I love my sister and am so grateful that all my family worries for what Steve and I are doing. I am also thankful that at some level they understand the call, the passion, the will and desire to go.

I am grateful for my brothers and sisters in the Middle East who are steadfast in their faith, with hearts of great courage. As Marilyn says, their courage makes us brave.

Today from Sojourners came the Verse and Voice blog via email later in the day after the news story and the email from my sister, and as usual, it was what seemed to draw these words of mine together for this day:

Happy is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in [God’s] ways. You shall eat the fruit of the labor of your hands; you shall be happy, and it shall go well with you. – Psalm 128:1-2

“Every day there are people in our world that do absolutely amazing things. People of all ages are very capable of doing tremendous, courageous things in spite of their fear.” -Mairead Corrigan

Steadfast God, perhaps one of the greatest mysteries is why you continue to entrust the work of your kingdom into our clumsy hands. But we are forever grateful that you do not want to change the world without us. May we become the church you dream of. Amen. – From Common Prayer

I want to walk in God’s ways every day and I look forward to walking with his people in Lebanon and Syria in November. Oh! The fruit of that labor is indescribable!

I don’t think of what we do by traveling this way is an amazing thing, but if Susan thinks so, awesome! Our friends there make us brave.

My hands are clumsy, but God has formed them and calls me to use them for his purposes. I want to be a part of his kingdom come…which is a world changer.

Amen.

Heart for healing, heart for peace

Heart for the Middle EastIt sits in a small box on my desk, nested in shreds of paper. It’s called the “inner spirit rattle” and it was a gift from a co-worker, a sister, a woman of generous heart and deep feeling. She gave it to me because when she saw it in the gift shop it reminded her of me.

That makes me smile. With it came this little card with a quote from Billy Joel:

I think music in itself is healing. It’s an explosive expression of humanity. It’s something we are all touched by. No matter what culture we’re from, everyone loves music.

“…an explosive expression of humanity.” What a great visual of the power of music! It meshes with my great manifesto of peace through music. (Someday that billion voice flash mob of a choir will happen. Talk about an explosive expression of humanity…can you imagine the explosive peace? I can.)

So I keep this musical heart rattle next to me on my desk and it brings me comfort and joy because of the giver and reminds me always of how we can encourage one another in this life. There is the sweet tinkle of bells and the soft rattle of its inner stones when I shake it. It’s a quiet music I can make right here in my office anytime.

There is another little card that came with it that says…

American Indians have long used rattles during ceremonies to ensure blessings upon their crops. Use this rattle to help rattle some rain into your life, some rain out of your life, to help rattle your worries away…

I use it to remind me to pray for the people I know represented by the world map just above my head to the left. I pray that peace would rain down like the deluge that came into our yard again last night. That those who have lived as neighbors for centuries in Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Palestine, Egypt and other parts of this globe will be able to live that way again soon. That their children would grow up to see tomorrow and the tomorrow after that. That together they will sing songs and make music that is an explosive expression of humanity. That the other kinds of explosions which have destroyed their communities, their homes, their lives, would be forever silenced. Such a rain of peace would be life-giving and life-sustaining.

The prayers that arise from my heart when I look at this beautiful little gift of a rattle are for healing and peace.

I found these words today from Pope Francis, and though they are about Syria specifically, I offer them on behalf of the entire region as I hold my ceramic heart in my hand, and the prayers pulse out with each beat.

A reading from an Angelus homily of Pope Francis

Today, dear brothers and sisters, I wish to add my voice
to the cry which rises up with increasing anguish from every part of the world…
from the one great family which is humanity.
It is the cry for peace!
It is a cry which declares with force:
We want a peaceful world; we want to be men and women of peace …
and we want in our society, torn apart by divisions and conflict,
that peace break out!
There are so many conflicts in this world which cause me great suffering and worry, but in these days my heart is deeply wounded by what is happening in Syria and by the dramatic developments which are looming.
I appeal strongly for peace …
How much suffering, how much devastation,
how much pain has the use of arms carried in its wake …
I think of many children who will not see the light of the future!
With utmost firmness I condemn the use of chemical weapons.
There is a judgment of God and of history upon our actions which is inescapable!
Never has the use of violence brought peace in its wake.
War begets war; violence begets violence.
What can we do to make peace in the world?
As Pope John said, it pertains to each individual to establish new relationships in human society under the mastery and guidance of justice and love.
All men and women of good will are bound by the task of pursuing peace.
I make a forceful and urgent call to the entire Catholic Church, and also to every Christian of other confessions as well as to followers of every religion and to those brothers and sister who do not believe:
Peace is a good which overcomes every barrier, because it belongs to all of humanity.
I repeat forcefully:
It is neither a culture of confrontation nor a culture of conflict which builds harmony with and between peoples, but it is a culture of encounter and a culture of dialogue;
This is the only way to peace.
May the plea for peace rise up and touch the hearts of everyone so that they may lay down their weapons and let themselves be led by the desire for peace.

Amen.

Sweet bounty

Goodness from the garden ready to take us through the fall and winter...and give as gifts.

Goodness from the garden ready to take us through the fall and winter…and give as gifts.

We have a really big yard that we love to work in. Steve is outside right now weeding the lavender bed. We had such a dry winter that about half of our lavender plants didn’t survive. We had a hearty few that did, plus a number of volunteers that are filling out the space. And we added a few new ones to get the bed going again.

We’ve got flowers and green plants taking the places now of what were hundreds of volunteer trees when we moved in. It took us three years to pull all the maple, sumac and mulberry trees that had been allowed to take over this yard. But in the twelve years we’ve lived here, it has become our oasis. We like to say that we live in a park by a park.

Like my brothers and sisters, we also enjoy growing some backyard crops. My brother George, though, is the one who really inherited Grandma Piskac’s green thumb. He can grow it. He can pickle or can it. (He makes the best dill pickles!) He can cook it. My brother Mike has also discovered gardening, which is funny because about the only vegetables he will eat are green beans and sweet corn. Interesting, that is what he grows in his backyard! Actually, Barb planted cantaloupe too. (We are looking forward to that harvest so we can wrap some prosciutto around it and enjoy it with a nice prosecco.) Sally lives on a farm now and she sends us regular updates through snapchat photos of the produce from her garden.

Steve and I have our beautiful cherry tree, given to us as a wedding gift from my dad and stepmom. We have our tomato square (four plants planted new this year, and four volunteers Steve couldn’t bear to rip out). We also have another square that contains a rugged patch of untamed raspberry plants. It started out as two, but now it is an actual tangled briar of lots! We were out picking them just yesterday. We also have our scattered chives and oregano in the back which have spread from potted plants, plus our patio tomato and two basil plants. Inside we’ve got our rosemaries where they can grow all year. That’s our food garden.

Somehow, the Prescott siblings have found pleasure in the garden. Nothing is better than fresh vegetables – especially those homegrown tomatoes! I think Grandma Piskac would be proud of all of us.

The other great thing that some of us have rediscovered is canning. When we were little we used to watch our mom make jelly. The one I remember is crabapple. She saved all the odd glass jars that used to go through a kitchen and those would become jars of crabapple jelly, each sealed with a dollop of paraffin on the top before the lid went on. I don’t think we ever had grape jelly on our pb&js when we were little. It was always crabapple but oh my! it tasted so good.

After our mom died, we sisters still made crabapple jelly. The neighbors had three crabapple trees in the yard next door and we became experts on which tree made the best jelly. At some point, we just stopped.

Jana and I rediscovered the joy of making jelly when we moved into our Chicago Street house and it came with a cherry tree in the front yard. Picking the fruit, cooking it down and squeezing out the juice, it all came back. And the kitchen is just filled with that beautiful smell of cooking fruit! After ladling it into hot jars and putting it through the hot water bath, we labeled the jars and we were ready for the fall and winter, and we had plenty of homemade jelly for Christmas gifts.

I am married to a man who enjoys this process with me. Already this summer we have cooked up 42 cups of cherry jelly and have shared it with friends. There is more to share! Next week we will be making a nice batch of raspberry, and I will work really hard to sieve out all the seeds. I’ve got some friends in Atlanta who need some more. (I even transported some carefully to Iraq in March to give to special people there.)

Bubbling tomato jamToday the kitchen smells like Thanksgiving. We are working on our second batch of tomato jam. Seasoned with ginger, clove and cinnamon, it smells like pie. It’s cooking down right now, thickening up with each minute that ticks by. In about half an hour I will ladle it into those jars and then immerse the jars into the hot water bath. Then it’s ready, ready to be enjoyed. And we know there are more tomatoes out there!

Thanks Grandma. Thanks Mom. These are good lessons that are still paying off.

Renewing Strength

Jana in her new roomIsaiah 40:31 says “…but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” That is Jana’s favorite verse in the bible.

Today was one of those days with her when the waiting didn’t seem to be happening. There was no mounting up with wings, no running, no strength. What she had was dragging feet, a terrible feeling of “life sucks” and me nagging at her. “Get mad! You pick it up when you’re mad.”

But we made it through this day and we will make it through the next. Tomorrow is the sabbath. We will go to church. We will sing hymns and songs of praise. We will worship and experience the community of our church family.

Hopefully, we will pick up our feet and at least…walk.

We will wait upon the Lord and live in the promise of renewed strength.