Easter Dresses and a Tent by the River.

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Quiet mornings with the steel guitar in the background. Easter Sunday.

My house is quiet, a little pup basking in the sunshine. I think she could sleep all day in the same spot.

Enjoyed a lovely Easter service on Saturday night with family all gussied up in our new        “Easter dresses” Some things don’t change from when your five. Well except this dress wasen’t made by my mother in 2-ton sewing machine that sounded like diesel engine. I also did not have a matching scrunchie last night

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Seasons are changing, it always prompts me to write. I should write more, but I also should eat more broccoli. Life is busy and sometimes broccoli is just gross.

We are attempting to buy our first home and its been quite the journey so far… and we don’ even have it yet.  Lessons so far.

1. You need a Realtor who you can understand. Literally. This is not the time to open your cultural horizons

2. Charlotte real estate is biggest Easter egg hunt I have ever played.

3. My husband is brilliant. He has impressed me so much with his tenacity and attention to detail. If this Easter egg hunt were left up to me, we would be in a tent by the river. Doesn’t that sound nice though…..

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4.  Mortgages are emotional. Perhaps its because I am a little too sensitive, to well… everything.

No seriously, it will be that largest purchase either my fella or I have ever made. It also means that we are settling down. The gypsy in me can’t help but buck at this thought.

Thoughts cross, ” You aren’t old enough for this…” ” Fun is over, time to buckle down…”     “Now your only adventure will be on sat and sunday doing yard work…” ” Get ready to enjoy to painting your shutters…” ” You never wanted the American dream anyway…”

Those nasty thoughts are derived out of fear and pride.

The truth is, buying a home is saving us money.

We are so incredibly blessed to be moving closer to family.

We have a church home and a few great friends that have filled our lives.. and we will moving closer to them.

The Father has showed me how my fella is my perfect provision in this process, secondary to the above mentioned tent comment.

My Father has brought healing into my fella’s heart by seeing how supportive his family has been in this process.

A home is where you make memories, where traditions come to life and were adventures start. They just don’t look like the whitewater- reckless backpacking- canoe capsizing life I once lived.

I raise my coffee mug to you this morning to say Happy Easter and happy adventuring…. May the Lord bless you today in unexpected ways and give you the prize to your own Easter Egg Hunt! Cheers!

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My grass will always be blue.

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Nostalgia. What a beautiful wonderful gift.

Nothing make me smile like the howls of Gillian Welch and a steel guitar. Why you may ask ? I have thought long and hard regarding such affection for the strings and minor chords rung loud by the those who most likely can’t read the notes on their page.

Born outside the Capital of NC one could hardly call me a “mountain girl” or ” farm hand” My first concert was Chicago followed by Santana. I tried my hand at the fiddle in high school, i was less that mediocre at best.  I have about zero dots to connect in this deep deep regard for bluegrass.

Here is what I do know.

My family to have grown up outside Carolina’s capital has embraced their rural heritage. The good-bad-ugly- but ruggedly human.  My first vehicle was a gold pick up, I had to leap into. My first festival I sat front and center while a less-known Grascals played the hell of a fiddle. Entranced. You know.. like when you stare into a fire.. the colors blue-purple- red-orange. I felt the music in those fury of colors.

My sixteenth birthday my mother.. recruited a local bluegrass quartet to play under a stone shelter. I still remember their singing ” Ill fly away ” to the top of their  lungs.

As time followed I found myself in Boone, and most distinctly investigating Old Time music. A more primitive precursor to the bluegrass but haunting just the same. So many Thursday nights I would sit on a wooden porch and listen to the old-pickers play. I would join in with shaky hands on my fiddle. I mostly just listened. Felt the vibrations under feet. Saw the glassiness of an elder’s eyes. They felt it too. They loved. They loved the music. It was not a song on the radio them ( heaven knows these would never get air-time). It was their passion and I was blessed to be apart of it.

I found myself one night, after rafting some wild river in the mountains, setting camp with my crew. Dinner finished and i heard it, the ring of a fiddle. The next thing I knew I  was running through the woods to see the hands behind the music. Reckless I know. I found this crew of men, round a fire and playing.  They welcomed this out-of-breath stranger. They had me sit down, share their moonshine and sing hymns for hours. It felt home.

Something about those Appalachian mountains. Perhaps its my Cherokee heritage that is echoing through my media-calculating- busy- modern life. Perhaps the Holy Spirit reminding me of the gifts of rhythms long ago.

A diatribe tonight, my apologies. The worst part.. I could go on, I will spare you. Sometimes the only way I can figure out anything is to make words come out of this noggin.

Below is my favorite Gillian Welch tune…. ” Come on boys.. .turn on some Old Time noise….”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k35haKwqY14

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A Ship in the Storm.

 

"And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,  When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,  When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,  The highwayman comes riding--  Riding--riding--  The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door."  Reminds me of the poem "The Highway Man."

Romans 5: 1-5   Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we[a] have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we[b] boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we[c] also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.

Peace… with the Holy One.  The Son… access giver with the tiniest droplet of faith.. access into grace… into the throne room. Boast we shall in hope. Hope in the glory of God.

Glory:   Great honor, praise, or distinction accorded by common consent; renown

Hope is where… in the mystical word.. Glory. Hope is in the praise, its in the renown.. its in the person.. its in you. its in me. its the divine and mystical work of the Trinity.

“also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”

honor and praise in our suffering? really? why?  because perhaps our Father knows we will never know him in a life where we have it all.

When we have soul holes, when we are pushed beyond our comfort zone, when we feel beaten up by the powers of this world, its in THAT suffering that we are being restored, by the restorer of our souls.

Pleasant, i think not. Clean and Tidy, most definitely not.  You, who feels angry. You, who feels abandoned. You, who has let the pressures of this world ink deep into your heart. Who has expectations of the ” way things should be.” You, who’s heart is burdened for another. Who feels .. let down.

You are being made. You are being burned in fire. The fire of self, expectations, worry, fear…. world. WHY? To give you perseverance.. which lead to hope. A Hope that does not disappoint.

AIVAZOVSKY, Ivan Konstantinovich Russian painter of Armenian descent (b. 1817, Feodosiya, d. 1900, Feodosiya) Ship in the Stormy Sea1887

Oh the ship, the one you have been called to board many moons ago. The ship that is making you are fisher of men. The ship that is tossing you around in mundane misery, of moods swinging high and low. This ship, my sister in Christ, has a captain.  He knows you are afraid. He knows you don’t even know what you need. He knows your seasick and want to dock, to rest. May I sing a lullaby of peace my sister, where waves- not the dock- rocks your sweet spirit to sleep. You have peace. Peace of a victor, Peace in a Father who promised to go after than one sheep.

It is in the waves, it is in the storm that you learn to cling. You listen to wind, you pay attention. Your senses are alive, you are dependent on the Savior. The facade of comfort in life  ” going as planned.” You are suffering. You are safe. You are saved. You are being sanctified… and he is too. You can trust in a Father who says he will lead up you, a lamp in the darkness. He will minister to your Spirit in ways that words fall flat. You need not carry the burden anymore. You receive. Be the receiver of grace that will walk you into the storm but will guide you into still waters.

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Riverbanks… where magic happens

 

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms.”
Henry David Thoreau, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods

 

Will you let time cease…forget the eternal click click of Father time’s hands..

Will you watch the sun set tonight with balmy dreams again? The dreams you had when small… before bills- alarms- emails- pagers- to do lists… before. distraction.

Drink deep from The Well… if only for an evening. Sleep hot and sweaty in the summer heat…  simple it is this life. Rise-Rinse-Repeat….

I exhalt you today to fill a few soul holes.. to embrace the sunshine kissing your skin.

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Days drag… they sprint… they leap for joy… they crawl back in bed.

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Lumineers ringing out of the tiny speakers…

blueberries scatter the floor from a curious pup

and coffee… oh sweet bitter goodness.

Today is a our nation’s birthday.

Rome, Athens… they are easy to think of their history, their birthdays!  You know the greater world revolved around them at point in time.

Here, A-mur-ica though- I don’t get the same goosebumps… why so?

Reading recently of a Cherokee diplomat reminds me that we too have goose-bump giving history.

The western mountains of Carolina will hold more secrets in her smokey air than any of us will ever know.

We have scars, a once peaceful people thrown about westward on a not-so-subtle title, ” The trail of tears”

Where are you today?

Are you reflecting on freedom and grace?

Are you working, as we both know the world doesn’t stop for holidays…

May we be still today. For just one second.

Think of the sacrifices that allowed us to live in a world where work- radio- scattered blueberries are possible. Thank you soldiers. Thank you.

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Music

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The brass 

was cold to touch

mouthpiece tight 

air balmy 

the notes

black dancers on yellowed parchment 

valves.. they are pistons 

fluid they rose and fell

notes.. raspy from inexperience 

it had been years since i picked up a trumpet. 

An unexpected blessing on this raining georgia weekend. 

I was blessed by a fellow lover of the brass horn 

Memories flooded of … like yesterday…  of green-grassy feet from the football field. 

Hours of steps, hours of notes…. teaching me discipline, perseverance and to work as more than one. 

Those were thorny years, perhaps you remember days past like these? 

Tonight- warm tea in hand- dishwasher humming and tired from hours on the road- I have been blessed.

Taken out of my lab value- risk calculating-hemorraging- code blue- surgical instrument world…

to remember my first instrument…

Reminds me to pause and remember the world is drunkenly complex and that music..

music wades and swirls around those jagged places 

the draining constants 

to fill…. and heal….

it is a Fathers gift to his tired children.

Grateful…. 

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Do it anyway….

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When was the last time you were scared?

Not running from a bear-  the moments before car accident- that dreaded phone call….. but a different fear..

The one that does not look like sweat on the brow but rather the flip flop in your belly?

What did you do? …. Did you stop and turn away. Pretend that the insult was not happening? Did you cry? Did you call your mom, for those of us still blessed with earthly moms that is…..

I make so pretense on this blog- I am discussed my fears with you… perhaps they are not much different than yours…

Mine is for the future.. Have I made a good choice? Is this next step going to all pan out?

Ladies, my friends.. I have no guarentee

and nor do you…

So what do we do?

Run…

Pretend…..

Hope..

Pray…

I say we learn from the strength of women before us.

We learn from those who arose long before the sun and worked late into the night..

Who had arms that were strong..

Who extended their hands to poor…

Who reached low to the needy..

Who spoke wisdom… and gained the respect of her elders…

Who feared the Lord..

Who never let her lamp go out…

Don’t hear me say- ” WORK MORE, HARDER, BE BETTER…..” there is enough of that voice in our own mind…

The truth I speak tonight to my own heart says..

Ones before you did…

They were equipped…

as are you….

as am I…

So may we rise early, work late and bend low…. in fear -in reverence- in confidence.

 

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