Thoughts on simplicity while shredding paper

As anyone who has attempted to de-clutter their life knows, simplicity can be complicated. It involves tackling not only the accumulation of stuff—those bins of college syllabi, old magazines, childhood treasures—but extra tasks we’ve taken on, organizations we’ve joined, the demands other people make on us, and all the clutter in our minds.

I remember one of the biggest decluttering jobs I ever undertook. It was over 25 years ago. After more than 75 years of service, the Friends Mission officially pulled out of Bolivia, leaving behind a national church of over 200 congregations with its own leadership, forms, and finances. It was time. Hal and I were the last missionaries on the field, so our task was deciding what to do with 75 years of accumulated mission files.

The first phase required that we decide what to keep, which basically came down to legal documents and records that had historical significance: correspondence, yearly financial reports, minutes, working agreements, and so on. Since most of this history took place before the internet and safe-keeping in the Cloud, that meant boxes of paper.

After setting aside the keeper documents, we had to deal with reams of minutia. We were overwhelmed with stuff, from multiple mimeographed copies of some class a missionary gave, to receipts for bottles of aspirin. We decided to shred the minutia, bag it, and let the municipal garbage service haul it off. That became our job description: sort, shred, bag.

As I sat on the rug shredding, many thoughts came to mind. I remembered that all these pieces of paper were related to real people and real situations. Long financial worksheets reminded me of the economic crisis of the 1980s when run-away inflation caused many of our Bolivian friends to lose their life-savings. The medical receipts brought forth images of Vicente and Arturo, Friends pastors who literally gave their lives in the service of the gospel.

I was impressed by the integrity all the receipts and reports represented. Every thing was accounted for and recorded. I also thought about all the trees that were sacrificed to maintain such integrity.

And I reflected on the values this task represented. I noted how one person’s garbage can be another person’s treasure. I observed how the bags of shredded paper we put in front of our gate almost always disappeared before the garbage truck arrived. Apparently a local industry was finding this stuff useful as packing material. It was cheaper than plastic bubbles. This made me feel a little better about the trees.

But mostly I reflected on the value of simplicity. It felt good. As the accumulation of paper lessoned, I felt relief. And today, too, whether it’s clearing out closets or the refrigerator, cleaning my desktop, simplifying my schedule, or re-ordering my priorities, the resulting sense of lightness and rightness makes it worth the effort.

I also reflected on the fact that, as mentioned above, simplicity is complicated. That’s a great oxymoron. None of this is easy or automatic. Simplicity is not simple. To let the stuff in my files or on my desk accumulate takes no effort whatsoever. Bringing order out of chaos does. It requires time, energy, organization, wisdom, and generosity, a willingness to give away what might be useful to someone else.

Recently as I was walking the labyrinth our Friends meeting has constructed in an adjacent field, I found myself repeating a simple prayer: “You are my life. You are my life.” It was as though God was reeling me in, bringing me back to the basic simplicity of soul from which all else flows. I found myself asking, with the psalmist, “Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire beside you” (Psalm 73).

I felt God reminding me that simplicity begins in the heart. It flows from a life oriented to the source of all life, from the deep knowledge that in God alone we “live and move and have our being.” That’s basic to Christianity, yet somehow I keep forgetting.

As I walked that path, I began to affirm, “Above all relationships—husband, children, grandchildren, friends—you are my life. Above all I possess or hold on to for security—my car, my books, my insurance policies, my investments—you are my life. Above all the intangibles I cling to—my health, my education, my achievements, my talents, my rights, my dreams—you are my life.” And I found myself praying, “Oh, Lord. Let it be. Change my heart. Keep reeling me in to yourself.”

I am sensing that only when I live from the simplicity of a life oriented to God can I move freely into the world as God’s agent of reconciliation and peace.

When will I start remembering this so much that I live by it? When will this attitude become a holy habit?

Prayer: “Take from our souls the strain and stress, and let our ordered lives confess the beauty of thy peace.” (John Greenlead Whittier)

Ageless birthdays

 It all started the day I turned one-year-old. My parents threw me a party. I don’t remember any of it, but I love the story they told me. My father was the high school football coach and he invited some of the varsity team to my party. They gave me a big porcelain porker (meaning a piggy bank) and then plunked in their nickels and dimes. Apparently I loved the sound and laughed out loud. Good story.

My family made a big deal out of our birthdays, making my brother, sister, and me feel very special on those very special days. We got to pick what to eat for dinner and there were, of course, cake with candles we blew out and, the best part—presents!

But my parents were not party people and the next actual birthday party I had took place years later, when I turned 12. It was a princess party, and the ten school friends I invited all dressed up as princesses. Long skirts, gauzy curtain capes, and card board crowns—we were gorgeous. All girls, of course. No boys allowed! (Times have changed. Girls seem to get crushes on boys at a younger age these days.)

That was my last birthday party as a young person. I found other ways to celebrate my special day. After Hal and I married and then began our family, it was mostly family-only celebrations, sometimes including going out to eat. Actually, with our kids, we did begin to invite their small (and then bigger) friends over. Often the whole missionary family gathered to celebrate the life of the child growing one year older.

When we lived in tropical Santa Cruz, Bolivia, other customs entered the story. On the birthday morning, our Bolivian friends gathered outside our bedroom window and woke us up with serenades. Loud and happy, accompanied by guitars, it woke up the neighbors too, but that was part of the fun. The birthday person was required to appear at the window, or at the front door, to receive the generous gift of music and friendship. Sometimes the celebrants came in for hot cocoa and pastries, bringing the goods themselves. It was a great way to start the day.

Some people seem to think that as we age, the magic of birthdays and parties diminishes. Birthdays are to be dreaded. Certainly not celebrated. One year older?! That’s scary.

Not so!

At least not for me and not for my friends around this retirement community. It feels good to be celebrated by family and friends, an affirmation that we matter, that people love and appreciate us. Who doesn’t need that kind of affirmation? Do we ever outgrow it? I haven’t.

Here on the fifth floor of the community, we have a special way of celebrating birthdays. My friend Francie creates a large colorful poster, usually featuring a baby picture of the birthday person, and the poster covers most of the apartment door. A birthday bear sits outside the door, on loan for the day. Then at an appointed hour, all the residents on the floor gather to serenade the life we are celebrating, wearing glittery crowns and other funny hats.  In addition to Happy Birthday to You, we have a series of silly birthday songs we always sing. It’s become a ritual in the positive sense of that word.

Yesterday we celebrated Francie’s 80^th birthday. Of course, no one is surprised anymore. The ritual is anticipated and sometimes we fake surprise just for the fun of it. And it’s always fun. In addition to the traditional Happy Birthday To You, we sang all verses to Blessed Be the Tie That Binds, and sensed the truth behind the words. We’re a family. And families celebrate birthdays.

No matter how old we are.

Too old for amazement?

 Usually I know by Monday what I’m going to blog about and I have it ready to post on Tuesday morning. Usually, but not always. Yesterday I had all these ideas I was juggling—old feet, diets, old hair, and hope—but I kept dropping the balls. So I left it to this morning and, sure enough, a text message from my daughter told me what I needed to write about.

She has just returned from a retreat on the Holy Spirit—which was amazing, she tells me. And she is currently in a professional conference on her area of service (visual impairment), and she reports that it is also amazing. Our son just reported on an amazing trip to Mexico, and he’s enthusiastic about an upcoming trip to Guatemala. God is doing such good things in both their lives that amazement is the right word. We see God answering our prayers for our kids above and beyond what we imagined.

But this morning as I read her message, I felt the contrast between the amazement that seems to define their lives and the sheer ordinariness of my life at the moment. It’s not that I’m jealous of my kids; it’s just that the contrast is interesting.

Not that I’m opposed to ordinariness. Quite the opposite. I think of the spirituality of Brother Lawrence—sensing God in the ordinary. Some of my favorite books have ordinary in their titles: The Sacred Ordinary, Ordinary Grace, etc., etc. I’ve defined my life mission as “seeing and expressing the grace of God found in the ordinariness of life.” That’s what my poetry is all about. Living here in the retirement community, peace and ordinariness are to be the tone of my lifestyle.

But when is ordinary just too ordinary?

Am I too old for amazement?

Amazement is an interesting word. In Old English the verb form meant “to confuse, stupefy, bewilder.” The earliest use in modern English (12^th-13^th century) meant “to stun, confound, bewilder, put into confusion.” But over time the meaning has shifted to what we mean today when we say, “I was amazed!” We mean, “I was filled with wonder or astonishment.” The negative has become positive.

I remember times as a youth or young adult (which means any age under 60) when I was filled with a joyful wonder that made me lift my arms, jump up, run around, and hug strangers. And I had the bodily energy to do all that. That wasn’t my normal life, of course, but times of a heavenly fire in my bones added that spark that made life exciting.

Any more, a fire in my bones sounds painful. Mild arthritis is hard enough to handle.

I do experience moments of amazement in worship. But if the music is too loud, the congregation too bodily enthusiastic, I get dizzy, and all I want is to escape to some quiet place. More and more I appreciate silent worship that lets my body relax. Of course, if I get too relaxed, I go to sleep. Oh well.

I experience wonder when I walk in the woods, stand by the ocean, or gaze into the heart of a rose. It’s a quiet wonder and I’m not sure it reaches the level of amazement. But maybe that doesn’t matter.

I’m thinking now of some recent grace sightings that have filled me with gentle wonder: the delighted look on my friend’s face when she turned around and saw me; the sight of my one-year-old great grandson discovering his first puddle; a poem that moved my spirit, made me say “Yes!;” the taste of an orange; Vivaldi’s “Summer Season;” soft sheets; a picnic with just Hal and me, splurging on hamburgers. All grace.

Still, I admit to a longing for more. I wouldn’t mind being so filled with wonder I tremble with joy for days afterward. Could my body take it? I hope so. Maybe. Or do I have to wait until heaven?

In the meantime (which is more kind than mean), I’ll forego the fire in my bones for a candle in the window. And a gentle amazement.

Trances, ecstasies, visions and raptures

 Yesterday in our Sunday school class, I taught a session on Teresa of Avila, the famous 16^th century Spanish mystic. I’ve always been drawn to Teresa—for her vivid imagination, her deep desire for intimacy with God, and her zeal for reform. Her book, The Interior Castle, has both intrigued and challenged me. An extended metaphor, Teresa envisions the Christian soul slowly growing in maturity, going from “mansion” to “mansion” in the castle until it finally reaches the 7^th mansion and finds perfect union with God. All of this takes place inside the believer, in the soul.

I stumble a bit in the 6^th mansion. Teresa’s experiences in prayer seem a bit extreme—visions and locutions, trances, raptures, and all sorts of ecstatic experiences that take the person out of their senses and leave them inebriated with God. Sometimes a sister might find herself silently drunk in the Spirit for days after the experience. I found myself asking, “Is this something I should want?” In one sense, yes, it might be wonderful. But, on the other hand, well—it all sounds sort of weird.

The 7^th mansion, the place of perfect unity, is surprisingly and blessedly free from extremes. God tells the saint that now that they are one (“the branch abiding in the vine”), there is no longer any need for more than occasional ecstatic experiences. The children of the spiritual marriage are good works, a reaching out to people who are suffering and need our comfort and presence. A good conclusion.

In the class discussion, one person told us that Teresa of Avila is the Patron Saint of Chess. Not only that, she was known for her joyful dancing in worship. That intrigued me, so I looked it up on the internet. Sure enough, partly because of Teresa’s use of the chess game as a metaphor in another book, The Way of Perfection, and because of her sharp intellect and ability to look ahead and plan, she has become the Patron Saint of Chess. Concerning her dancing, although her books focus on overcoming sin, on penance, and on suffering as parts of the path toward growth, many sources attest to her joyful habit of dancing during worship. She was a many-faceted saint.

One other thing. I learned that she is also the Patron Saint of Headaches and Migraines. One source said it was because her zeal for reform in the convents gave her superiors headaches.

Concerning the subject of ecstatic experiences, I wondered why this isn’t experienced as much among Protestants, and why it isn’t experienced more today. Perhaps it is in the more Pentecostal branches of the church. I also wondered why I haven’t experienced raptures, trances, or visions.

Then I realized I have. Although not a regular part of my life, at certain times in my journey the Spirit has visited me in a supernatural way that has impacted the rest of my life. Let me tell you about one such experience.

Hal and I had just returned to Oregon on our first missionary furlough from Bolivia. Accompanying us were five-year old David and two-year-old Kristin. Our task for the year—to travel throughout the yearly meeting speaking in churches, conferences, homes, etc., informing about the mission work in Latin America. I was nervous. Actually, I was frightened, sometimes experiencing moments of panic. Could I do this and do it well?

On this particular day, Kristin’s cousin Karina was with us on a play-date and the little girls, both two-years-old, were running around, giggling, having a noisy good time. I was doing housework, at the moment on my knees scrubbing the bathtub. I give these details to show that I was not in a spiritually charged, mystical atmosphere.

As I was scrubbing, the curtain that separates the everyday world from another realm divided and I slipped through. I was in the same house, but it was strange. I found a door I hadn’t seen before and as I opened it and went in, I discovered a secret room in this old house. It was a dining room, sparely furnished with a large wooden dining table and chairs and a wooden dish cabinet at the far end of the room.

I walked to the cabinet and somehow knew that I was supposed to set the table. I took down the four plates. They were fine china, white with a gold rim. But as I lifted each one, it came alive. A beautiful moving picture of nature filled it. The first held a meadow of wild flowers bending in a gentle breeze. The second featured a forest, leaves all fluttering, sunlight and shadows dancing. The third plate was a high mountain range, cumulous clouds scudding through the sky, and an eagle in the distance. The fourth and final plate showed a stormy ocean, waves crashing on the rocks, gulls cutting the air. All of them beautiful. I was breathless with the wonder of it.

Then I began taking down the four crystal goblets. As I lifted each one some inner instinct told me to put it to my ear like a sea shell. The sounds of each goblet corresponded to the scenes on the plates: bees, insects, and birdsong; the wind in the trees; the cry of an eagle; waves crashing on the rocks. Such incredible music!

I wondered who owned such marvelous dishes.

Suddenly an angel appeared at my side. He didn’t look anything like any angel I had ever imagined. He was obviously American and very athletic, sporting a blond crew cut and a knee-length Greek toga. I knew in my spirit that he was good. I was startled but not afraid.

The angel looked at me, smiled, then pointed to the dishes and said, “They’re yours, you know. Why don’t you use them?”

At that moment I found myself back in the bathroom, soapy sponge in hand, kids playing in the background. I sat back stunned, every detail of the experience clear in my mind. I sensed a new lightness in my spirit although I didn’t know what any of it meant. I carried that lightness and joy with me throughout the day.

When Hal returned in the evening I told him about my strange experience. He immediately responded with, “Oh, Nancy! Don’t you see what God is saying to you?! He’s telling you that in this hard task you have before you, he has gifted you with all you need to nourish people and to do it beautifully.” He wasn’t talking about food.

I’ve carried the message of the vision with me for over 50 years now. My life’s work has been about communication—mostly writing, but also teaching and speaking. As an introvert often called into public ministry which is naturally uncomfortable, God reminds me that he has given me all I need. Both substance (nourishment) and form (beautiful dishes).

I don’t know if this experience was an official “trance” or “rapture,” but I didn’t (and don’t) feel the need to categorize it. I knew (and know) that it was real.

Thanks be to God for all the ways he speaks to his children.

Just a tweak

 I’m a fan of traditional western medicine for the most part, but I’m also open to the healing insights of other traditions. I’ve even ministered in the area of inner emotional healing. This past week I experienced another type of non-traditional healing work.

Hal and I spent the week with our daughter Kristin and her family in their home in the forest. Kristin and David (our son) had gifted me with four sessions with a practitioner in natural medicine. This woman is a Christian with a gift in healing and training in massage and in the alleviation of allergies through muscle testing. Kristin had found relief from her headaches under the care of this woman. The kids thought she might help me with my vestibular migraines. I’m open to any help I can get. It was a generous and loving gift.

It was an interesting experience and I’m still processing it. (One of my processing strategies is writing—so you’re helping me right now as I write.) The first session included an hour-long massage that was delicious, followed by muscle testing during which my body told her that the emotion of pity was blocking my healing. What she meant by pity was inappropriate or excessive compassion. I thought of my deep reactions to the suffering in Gaza or the trauma currently faced by immigrants in my own country. In response, she had me hold a jar containing some substance related to pity while she did some pounding/rolling work on my back. She explained she was retraining the nerves in my body so they would respond in more wholesome ways. I didn’t, and still don’t, understand it, but I had told myself ahead of time to be open and just let God work anyway he wanted to. I left the session feeling a deep peace.

During the second session the woman led me in a time of inner healing concerning traumatic events that took place over nine years ago, around the time my dizziness and head pressure were beginning to trouble me. It was very revealing. I know that we are whole creatures, that body, mind, and emotions interact. I thought that I had already made peace with the events, all concerning conflicts in my faith community. But apparently I still had some healing work to do. Or have done to me, as she again gave me a vial to hold while she worked on my back and prayed.

In the following two sessions, my body “told” her that it doesn’t metabolize proteins like it should and that it has problems with heavy metals. The information about proteins especially fascinated me as I know that protein imbalance is a recognized problem in all kinds of migraines. The exercises with holding different vials and her work on my back were to reorient my bodily systems and help them function correctly. So mysterious.

Like I said, I may be baffled but I’m holding my heart open to healing from any source of light. I do feel a great sense of peace and lightness since the treatments, although the dizziness and head pressure haven’t noticeably reduced. I’ve been told before that my rational left-brain and my intuitive right-brain are well balanced. In other words, I’m able to hold doubt and belief together and just wait to see what happens. I’m ok with weird.

I believe in what my traditional doctor is doing, in the medicines she’s experimenting with. And I certainly believe in prayer. I’m also open to the possibility that this condition might be like St. Paul’s “thorn in the flesh,” something God is letting me live with for his own purposes. More mystery.

Back to prayer, here’s a prayer/poem I wrote a year ago. It’s in the form of a conversion between me and God.

Just a Tweak

    Yes, Lord. It’s me again,
    here in this new day.

Good morning, dear one. Well come.
What can I do for you today?

    Thanks for asking. (Even though
    you already know the answer,
    your courtesy encourages me.)
    And thank you for this awesome
    body/mind/spirit.
    I am wonder-full at how
    wonderfully and fearfully
    I am made.

    But since you asked,
    could you just tweak
    this body a little?
    I know I’m growing older
    and that a bit of wear ’n tear is natural,
    but is this particular malfunction
    really necessary?
    Just a tweak, God. That’s all I’m asking.
    You can do it if you want to.

I want.

    Okay, then. That’s what I’m asking for.
    Here, let me sing my prayer to you.

    Have mercy on me and heal me.
    Set me feet upon a rock.
    Put a new song in my heart.
    O Lord, have mercy on me.

Okay. But you’ll have to let me do this
my way, in my time.

    Yes, God. My times are in your hands.
    I’ll wait.
    And in the meantime
    I thank you for your grace
    and your artistry in making me.
    And I anticipate the tweak.

    Amen.

Older than I look

 My daughter recently walked the Camino de Santiago, journeying from Portugal up to the northwest corner of Spain where the St. James (Santiago) Cathedral dominates the city of Compostela. Upon return she gave a beautiful coffee coaster made of porcelain tiles. Each small tile is distinct, no two being the same. I love it.

Wondering whether the coaster was made in Portugal or Spain, I turned it over to read the small print on the back. I learned that the company is in Asturias, Spain, but that the coaster itself was made in—you guessed it!—China.

I struggle with the question many people here in the retirement center ask—where are you from? I don’t always know how to answer. I’ve lived in so many places. I was born in Iowa; grew up in Iowa, Arizona, and Southern California; went to college in Oregon; and spent a good number of my adult years in Bolivia and other Latin American countries. But really, I’m from Oregon where I now live.

Or am I?

Like the coaster, it’s hard to tell. I had to turn the coaster over and read the fine print.

Please don’t turn me over to find out where I’m from.

But inside me, somewhere—heart? brain? where?—there are deep words that read “from before the foundation of the world” God knew and chose me (Ephesians 1:4). I come from heaven. I come from the heart of God. I’m older than I look.

Truth be told, I still live there. The Old Testament prophet Moses tell us that the Lord has been our dwelling place throughout all generations (Psalm 90:1). In the New Testament we read that we are to abide in (live, dwell, sink deep into) Christ (John 15). If we’re following the footsteps of Jesus, that’s where we live, no matter where we make our bed.

And someday, in a new and living sense, I’ll return to my beginnings. I’ll go home, back to the heart of God, but in a deeper, more experiential way. Physically as well as spiritually.

Considering my beginnings, I’m “older than the hills,” as the saying goes. But considering my destiny, I’m just getting started.

I’m so much younger than I look.

Doing the stuff or just believing?

 Recycling is good and I’m recycling an old idea today. It’s the dilemma of works (doing the stuff) versus faith (just believing), especially as applied to the challenges of growing older. Actually, I’ve written on this before, but I still wrestle with it. I wrestle by writing.

Recently I read in Romans 4 Paul’s praise of the old patriarch Abraham who was blessed by God because of his faith, not for any works he did. Paul makes it clear that faith is superior to works. Even good works.

Since retirement, I squirm when someone asks me what I’ve been doing lately. I have to pause and try to remember.

Like many of us, I came from the world of work and I can look back and feel proud of my accomplishments: textbooks written; poems published; classes taught; kids fed, educated and finally launched. Not to mention all the education I soaked up (and paid for).

Not all of it was good works, of course. I had plenty of set-backs. I was a miserable failure at teaching in public high school. I lost a significant scholarship because on the final interview I couldn’t remember my name. (I’m not kidding. I was that nervous.) I could go on, but for the sake of my pride, I won’t.

At any rate, I worked hard. I did a lot of stuff and made a name for myself.

But now that life is on the shelf. When I visit my old school, church, or place of work, there are so many people I don’t know. And they don’t know my name and could care less about my accomplishments. I’m another person. It seems that the time of works is over.

So, what have I been doing lately? Not much really. I pray and write in the mornings, but that’s what I love, what I’ve always wanted to give my time to, so it probably doesn’t count. Sometime I attend an exercise class. In the afternoons I might visit a friend and we talk. I take walks and naps. I read a lot of books. Occasionally I watch a movie. (Occasionally I binge on a Netflicks series, but that’s a secret). I might work on a puzzle or draw flowers. Many evenings other people fix my meals and wash the dishes. Then we watch the evening news, pray for the world, and go to bed early. That’s what I’ve been doing lately. It all adds up to—not much.

Not only do I squirm at the question of how I’m spending my time, I sometimes struggle with guilt. The active, left-brain, accomplishing self feels guilty. But the softer, more intuitive self tells the busy self to just shut up. Sometimes she does.

I know this isn’t exactly what Paul means when he champions faith over works. But now that my time for works has diminished, I take comfort from his perspective. Do I have enough faith to justify that comfort? That’s a good question.

To complicate matters, the Apostle James turns the faith/works equation on its head when he tells us that “faith without works is dead.” Dead. That’s pretty drastic. I guess I can’t let retirement release me completely from the need to work for the kingdom. Maybe my praying and writing and talking with people are forms of work? I’m not so sure about the puzzles and the movies and novels, but, honestly, I don’t feel too guilty about any of it.

I know I’m getting older, but I’m not yet ready for dead, thank you very much, St. James. And I honestly don’t want to be busy accomplishing stuff anymore. So, I need to keep seeking a healthy balance of good works appropriate for my time of life and a faith that sustains it all.

And I’d like to be less flummoxed by the question, “What have you been doing lately.”

Maybe “not much” is a whole lot.