Here’s an excellent reading for today. It’s George MacDonald’s sonnet for February 29. I know, this isn’t a leap year. It is, however, appropriate for the end of any day, week or month of the year. Including February! So here it is, with my comments following. Read the rest of this entry »
Am I ready? Are we ever ready? When I was in my 40s I learned a simple practice. It helps me when I feel anxious about one of my loved ones.
First, a little background. I wasn’t ready to be a parent, Read the rest of this entry »
Here’s a wartime poem from Amy Carmichael. Have you ever dreaded or experienced the knock at the front door? An unexpected phone call? My brief comments are at the end. Read the rest of this entry »
I’m surprised at feelings I’ve had since I began writing Dear Dad letters. Sometimes I’m afraid I’m trying to get something from Dad that he can’t give me. I don’t think I am. I definitely feel I’m ‘out there,’ in the driver’s seat without a finished roadmap, uncertain where this will lead.
Most surprising, though, Read the rest of this entry »
Here’s a happy poem from Amy Carmichael. It reminds me of creation, Sabbath rest, children, and what it takes to survive in a sometimes desolate landscape. These bluebells are in the British Isles. Amy grew up in Ireland, and doubtless enjoyed bluebells like these when she was growing up.
Texas bluebells, the state’s flower, were one of Diane’s favorites. On one of my spring trips to Houston, which happily included our daughter, Diane and her family drove us out into the country to view spectacular Texas bluebells. This post is in honor of Diane, whose eyes were as blue as the bluebells of Texas.
I think Amy wrote this poem especially for children, of which she was one at least in spirit. You might try reading it out loud–just for fun!
Bluebells
Once in a granite hill
God carved a hollow place,
Called the blue air, and said, “Now fill
This emptiness of space.”
Or was it angels came,
And set among the fells
A crystal bowl, and filled the same
With handfuls of bluebells?
Hot hours walked overhead;
Our valley grew more sweet,
Though elsewhere gentle colors fled
Fearing those burning feet.
Those burning feet—the fells
Are withered where they go,
But still the misty blue bluebells
Only the bluer blow.
O God, who made the bowl
And filled it full of blue,
Canst Thou not make of this, my soul,
A vase of flowers, too?
Let not the hot hours make
Thy child as withered fells,
But fill me full, for love’s dear sake,
With blue as of bluebells.
Amy Carmichael, Mountain Breezes:
The Collected Poems of Amy Carmichael, pp. 132-33
© 1999, The Dohnavur Fellowship, published by Christian Literature Crusade.
Published in Pans (prior to 1917) and Made in the Pans (1917)
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 24 January 2015
Photo credit: http://www.loweswatercam.co.uk
It’s November. My husband and I just finished a hike through the meadow at Longwood Gardens Though the weather forecast promised warm afternoon sun, it’s gray, cold and misty. On a whim, I ask my husband to take a picture of this sign. Read the rest of this entry »
After living with ALS for 10 years, my sister Diane died in spring 2006. This week I’ve been reading through some of my Houston journal notes. I kept them when I flew to Houston to visit Diane. As I read, I couldn’t help noticing how often Read the rest of this entry »
My heart still pounds when I relive this event.
Here’s what I read to my male colleagues, lightly edited for clarity.
_____
I want to let you know why I’ve chosen not to attend these faculty fellowship gatherings. It’s about me. In particular, it’s about my almost intolerable level of personal discomfort, accompanied by my sense of a being in a highly charged atmosphere in which I am now supposed to be ‘spiritual.’
At my university, there was virtually no community spirituality. This was uncomfortable and strange to me. Here at the seminary, there’s much excitement and fervor about community spirituality. This, too, I find strange and uncomfortable.
First, two statements about what spirituality is not:
Put positively,
Here’s a more descriptive statement. For me, spirituality is about the following:
Spirituality is more than the event of the Holy Spirit opening our eyes. It’s also a language that we speak. However, I find myself surrounded by language that doesn’t reflect my spirituality. This is what I hear:
This language disturbs me, largely because I feel no freedom to challenge it openly.
When we’re dealing with theological positions, we seem to do better at inviting dialogue. But when we’re dealing with spirituality, I sense that the shape of spirituality has been precut. Those who don’t fit the garment are at best misfits, at worst not ‘in the Spirit.’
In the end, my spirituality has to do with becoming acutely aware of the humanity of others and of myself—and of God in all of this. It’s an awareness born of involvement in life, not an awareness that leads to involvement.
My goal, then, is to stay exactly what I already am–human, within the real world like everyone else, not separated out into a ‘more spiritual’ world.
_____
In a last post, I’ll comment about what happened next and what I’ve learned from this experience. Stay tuned!
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 11 January 2015
Dear Readers,
High time for a report! All the pieces aren’t in place yet, but I have a direction.
No Facebook
Not for now. I looked at several FB pages of bloggers and authors I follow. They were wonderful. Yet the more I looked at the time commitment and energy output needed from me, the less eager I became. I feel relieved that for now, my energy goes into writing for the blog.
A Haiku Challenge
The challenge is to write one haiku a day. Sounds easy, right? Well, if all goes well, you’ll know each day whether I’ve done that. If I don’t, you won’t see a thing.
Areas for Focused Writing
Just so you know, I’ve made a pact with myself to keep my posts not-too-lengthy, so you can expect manageable pieces from time to time. All mixed in with other things I love to write about: Diane; devotional writing that moves me; haiku and poetry; letters to Mom. Who knows, I might even write another letter to Dad. Probably to God, too.
If you’ve found me or I’ve found you, there’s a reason. I want to live into that while I’m able.
With gratitude, respect, and expectation!
Elouise
Telling the Truth 