I'm Moving ... Again

No, we are not leaving Knoxville. I am moving my blog to WordPress. So if you'd like to "follow" me on over there, just click this link: http://stacyjstanley.wordpress.com/2012/12/08/hammock-season/ The Follow option is in the upper right corner. Much easier for readers to be notified of new posts and comment as they wish.

Hope to see you there!

Week 3: The Gift

In that humble place
Mysterious men from the East
Lay down their gifts
At his feet:

Gold for the King

Frankincense for the anointed One

Myrrh for Him who would die for humanity.

I don’t think anyone in that room

Fully understood
The meaning of those gifts
            Or all they foreshadowed.
How could they?
But they didn’t have to comprehend
In order to give.
Just believe.

In this humble heart

I try to comprehend the mystery
Of this gift of grace.
            I am a child of the King.
            I am anointed to serve.
            I will live forever.
I struggle to embrace
The full meaning of this
Indescribable gift.
But I don’t have to understand
In order to receive.
Just believe.

Advent Week 2: The Name

His coming
Included so many miracles –
The angels’ announcement to shepherds
The gifts from the magi
The star they all followed.
But the greatest miracle just may be
His Name.
Immanuel.
God is with us.

Roll that over in your head a while.
Let it settle into your heart.
All the longing of man to
            Be
            With
            God,
And He chooses
To be with us.
To be with … me.
And not just when I call Him
            Shout His name in praise
            Cry it in a tearful plea
            Whisper it in my exhaustion.
Not just when I would run to Him
For safety,
But even when I try to hide from Him
In shame.
            Where can I go from His Spirit?
            Where can I run from His presence?
Nowhere!
He is always
Right here,
Never to leave me or give up on me.
God is with me.
Immanuel.
What a miracle!

Advent Week 1: The Promise

We knew well the promise,
The promise we had clung to
Because it was our hope
In slavery
In wandering
In battle
In captivity
In every ceremony.
But we had nearly forgotten the promise,
Had drifted away from the truth.
Then the prophet Isaiah
Called us back
And declared again the promise of salvation
That would come in the Messiah.
                "And the Spirit of the Lord
                Will rest on him."
So encouraged,
We continued our expectant waiting.
 
Years later
Another man declares the same promise
Keeping the hope of salvation alive
In our hearts.
As a long line of believers is baptized,
From among them
One stands out.
When he rises from the water,
He stops.
The sky opens
And the Sprit comes down
To settle on Him.
                "This is my beloved Son
                With whom I am well pleased."
Our wait is over.
Salvation is here!

Should

I should be better by now.
I should be settled
Into my new normal,
A routine that no longer
Includes you.
I should have moved on
At least a little,
Taking steps toward healthy.
I should be beyond
Denial, anger, bargaining
And well on my way
To acceptance.
 
But in grief
There is no should.
Only is
Or isn't
Can't ... for now.
There are no deadline or timelines.
No finish line.
One day, there will be
May, will, shall.
Acceptance.
Today, I simply take the next step
And move along as best I can.

Fresh Start

You see, the thing is
I didn't ask for this
Fresh start.
I was comfortable.
Really.
I had all I wanted.
I had enough.
But now I'm here.
Way out here.
And I miss everything,
        Everyone,
I left behind.
I'll never have that again.

I know.

You had so much --
        Home, friends
But you needed more --
        Me.
You were comfortable
But I needed you to be strong.
And I love you
Enough to move you
Anywhere
So you'll draw closer to Me.
Depend on me.
Let me be all you need,
And you'll have more than enough.

 

 

Or Not

You promised

That nothing would change.

You knew me better than anyone,

Including me, sometimes.

You would stay with me,

Sustain me,

Defend me,

Need me as much as I need you.

I believed you to be

True

And honest

As you spoke of blue skies

For us.

But now

Everything is different.

You don’t even know me,

Nor care to.

But I’m getting reacquainted with myself.

You are gone

And I am alone

To face the enemy –

Loneliness.

And face the piercing truth

That the sky is gray

For me

For now.

When He Calls My Name

For months

My mother carried me,

Dreaming of the day

She would see my face

And give me a name.

For years

I heard my name

Called from across the house

Across the yard

Across the street

To come to supper

To come for discipline

To come home.

For me

This name means different things

From different people.

My mom

My friends

My lover

Each say my name

In their own way

And each is special

To me.

For eternity

The Father has known me

Longing for the day

When I will see His face

And hear Him call my name,

The name He has always had for me.

I have never heard it,

But it will be special to me

Because it will be my own.

Home Sweet Home

About a week before Mark and I got married, we spent (yet another) evening working toward settling in. He was already living in the home on Westmoreland Drive that we would share for the next 18 years, and we had spent the previous 6 months painting the kitchen, scrubbing walls in the other rooms, and replacing carpet. I had dozed off on the couch during a break, and woke up shocked to see the time was 2 am! I hustled out the door so my folks wouldn’t worry about me – but I feared it may have been too late.

I was determined to get home as quickly as I could, but just as determined not to be pulled over for speeding.  So my speedometer hovered at 55 most of the way. I was alone with overnight truckers on Highway 158 at that strange hour. That is, until a car came rushing up behind me. After some weird maneuvers, the driver turned on … his blue light. Great.

I found a safe place to pull over and waited for the deputy to approach. He was unable to give me a good reason for stopping me, but did ask all the usual questions. In my exhausted and startled state, I was not very clear in my answers.

“Ma’am, where are you coming from?”

“My house.”

“And where are you heading?”

“Home.”

“Excuse me?” I think he was getting ready to have me walk a straight line or something.  I proceeded to explain that I was getting married in a week, that I had spent time working on the new house, and was heading home to sleep. The deputy, mildly suspicious, weighed my words carefully and finally decided that this answer was plausible. He let me go.

A week later, Mark and I began our new life together. We called that house our home, but it took me quite a while to settle in to a new routine, a new route to work, a new role as lady of the house, in charge of meals and all. After a while, without my really noticing, that house became our happy home.

All these years later, I find myself in the same situation. Mark moved to Knoxville ahead of us, while I remained in Winston-Salem to tie up loose ends. I had a fixed moving date, but until then, Westmoreland Drive remained my home.

I am here now, trying to settle into a new routine, a new route to a new job. I’m still in charge of meals, but I have to get used to a new kitchen. But I trust that, without our really noticing, this place will soon feel very much like home.

As Fast as I Could

I am originally from Minnesota, though I have lived in North Carolina for over thirty years. I do still have many of my Midwestern giveaways. The most obvious one is that I still don’t say y’all. I don’t eat greens. I enjoy a cold, brisk day.

When folks notice these things, I offer this simple explanation: I’m not from around here. Of course, sometimes they point it out first.

So when I went back to Minnesota to visit my grandparents, I saw it as a trip back to where I belong. I couldn’t wait to take a walk around the lake and feel the prairie wind on my face. And I couldn’t wait to enjoy the feeling of being among my own people, people who “get” me, people who know that I belong here.

And that is exactly how I felt while in my grandparents’ home. When we shared meals, watched a Twins game, played hearts. But when we ventured out, I realized how foreign this lovely place had become. The names of places tasted funny in my mouth: Osseo, Lake Miniwawa, Hennepin Avenue. The pace felt different. And, as if for the first time, I really heard that Midwestern accent. It was as if the entire cast of A Prairie Home Companion were following me around. I was loving every minute of it, and still not realizing what it meant for me.

Then one morning we had breakfast at a nearby diner. A very efficient waitress came to take our orders, first my grandparents and then me. I requested two eggs over medium, bacon, wheat toast and coffee. She scribbled it all down and, without looking up from her order pad, asked “So … what part of the South are ya from, there?” I was too stunned to answer, beyond a surprised chuckle. Why would she ask that? It’s not as if I had ordered grits, which she couldn’t have served to me anyway. She looked up and waited for my reply. Then I straightened up and proudly declared, “North Carolina.”  As soon as she walked away, I grabbed my cell phone and called my sweet Southern father-in-law to tell him what just happened, while my grandpa chuckled in the background.

Well. My transition is apparently complete. I am proud to say I am from North Carolina, the Great North State. And now I love to repeat something I saw on a bumper sticker once: I was not born in the South, but I got here as fast as I could.

Lunch Hour

Chipper chatter

Bounces around this crowded room

Co-workers watching the clock

As they share a quick meal.

Any other day

We would add to the happy din

Of voices and laughter between hasty bites

Knowing the food

Is secondary to the face time.

Squeezing as much as we can

Out of a too-short lunch hour

We would share stories

                Of work and home

And list favorites

                From tv and music.

The conversation would come easily.

It always has.

But not today.

This lunch hour is different.

The chatter around us

                Annoying at first

Soon fades away

Leaving us in a bubble of silence

So full of meaning

That we almost can’t speak.

We are reduced to small talk

As we nibble our cold fries

Without tasting them.

We exchange thoughts of friendship

Without saying them.

Coming Home (V)

I had been called away

By life.

(It has a way of doing that.)

It was only a few Sundays

But still

It felt so much longer.

Almost like a visitor

I walk in

Wondering if anyone will speak to me

While I look for a seat.

Oh yes!

Warm greetings

And life-giving hugs

Easy laughter with good friends.

Family.  Community.

The music starts

Voices raised and hearts lifted,

We sing through joyful tears.

So grateful!

Time to sit,

Settle in for the sermon.

We are reminded of our royalty,

Our future, our hope,

Our place in the kingdom,

And we are encouraged.

Long good-byes

And lunch invitations

I linger as long as I can

While my soul is nourished.

I don’t want to leave.

After weeks away,

I am home.

Coming Home (VI)

Soon.

A precious word

Full of the promise of satisfaction.

Wonderful, new things

Sweet reunion

A fresh start.

But first

There is much to do.

Many farewells

Hugs and kisses

Selling and cleaning and packing

That could all go on forever.

Meanwhile,

On the other side of those mountains

Nestled in the valley,

You wait

And cling to that word

Soon.

I promise you

Soon enough you will hear me say

I am home.

O Taste and See

I remember summers at Gull Lake in northern Minnesota.  Far removed from any city – only Brainard was nearby – there was no pollution, no noise, no hurry.  The air was cooler up there, perhaps because of the breeze off the lake.  Or the tall pine trees that shaded the grounds of the small cabin resort where my family stayed for one lazy week out of each year.

Whatever the reason, the time we spent up there was wonderful.  For me, there are special memories.  The whole family, including grandparents, cousins, and my aunt and uncle gathered for some quality time, a good share of the usual bickering among the children, and some of the best fishing I can remember.

I used to love to catch sunnies – tender, tasty little panfish.  For a ten-year-old girl, it’s a fairly easy catch.  Grandpa taught all of us grandkids how to fish.  We’d all head to the dock with our poles and buckets of worms, ready to catch a great Northern Pike.  But first, we had to learn to bait the hook.  Grandpa’s number one rule was that if we were going to fish, we had to put the worm on the hook ourselves.  My little cousin Heidi’s fishing career was over then and there.  Those worms wiggled and squirmed, but we got them on the hook, and we even caught a few fish.

As much as I enjoyed that, my favorite memory is of me and Grandpa alone on the boat.  Everyone else was playing on the shore where my mom, aunt and Grandma were sunbathing.  Grandpa and I were way out in the middle of the lake, ready to catch that evening’s dinner.  Shh, quiet.  When a fish nibbled the bait off the hook and got away, I would re-bait and start again.  I enjoyed having Grandpa all to myself, even it if meant baking in the hot sun, cutting my hands on the hook, or feeling the ache that comes from sitting in the boat too long.  But all the while, Grandpa offered plenty of praise and encouragement.

The best part came when we arrived back at the dock.  We’d hold up our net full of fish, proud that we had provided dinner for the entire family.  But instead of heading to the kitchen with our load, we made our way down a path to the fish house.  This was basically a screened-in hut with a single counter built for the sole purpose of scaling and fileting fish.  This was the tough part, because it was rather a gross process.  The counter was permanently stained with blood, and the single trashcan was usually half full of fish remains.  And the smell . . . well, you can imagine.  But then, that’s where my “suffering” ended.

Grandpa, however, set himself to the task of cleaning the fish.  (I always thought this was an odd term for something that seemed so dirty.)  He pulled out his knife and deftly sliced open each fish and cut it down to the tasty meat.  In only a few moments, he had a pile of shiny white pieces ready to be battered and fried.

By the time I was seated at the table, listening to someone say the blessing, I no longer felt my sunburn, or felt the ache in my hands, or smelled the odor of the fish house.  I only knew that dinner was going to be good.  Corn on the cob and tomatoes grown in Grandpa’s garden, Mom’s homemade fries, and the center of the banquet, the sunny filets.  What a feast!

God invites us to taste of His goodness.  But we can only do that if we trust.  Out in the middle of the lake, with mosquitoes humming around me, I had to trust that it would be worth the wait, worth the trouble.  I didn’t make a conscious effort to trust in the outcome; I knew it by instinct, and by past experience.  And I knew that Grandpa had something good planned for me.  And I think it is the same with our heavenly Father.  He has so many blessings waiting for us, if we will only trust Him.  Sometimes we must endure the uncomfortable, or downright painful, things in life; and it takes all we have to trust in the outcome.  But over time, with a lot of experience, trust may become our automatic response to tough times.  And we will eventually know deep in our hearts what we have been learning all along – that the good things in life will come to us in time, and will appreciate them so much the more when we have had to work and wait.

Things I Will Miss (a series)

As Mark heads to Knoxville ahead of us, I am left behind to wrap things up. I will be here another couple of months, but I have already begun to ponder what I will miss. (Yes, it is part of the grieving process, the eventual journey to acceptance.) So here is a list of the familiar things that I will miss. This is not an exhaustive list, but only what I have noted so far.
* Familiar voices on favorite radio stations
* Friday dinner at Apollo Flame restaurant where Chris treats us right
* Reynolda House and the Reynolda Mile, especially in autumn
* The winding streets of West End
* The energy of Fourth Street
* The sweet granny greeter at Wal-Mart
* Dairi-O
* Old Salem
* K&W Cafeteria
* Cheerwine
* Dash games and fireworks

 
 

Coming Home (III)

At a party

Surrounded by a crowd

Of friends and grateful guests

Tinkling of ice in glasses

Music of the piano

Percussion of chatter

A crescendo of conversation

Ending in a burst of laughter.

The party is over

But the cleaning up can wait.

You are all that matters

You, and this time we have.

I see you smile

As you reach out to take me in your arms

For one last song.

And I am home.

Emmaus

I am your disciple,

Though I don’t always

Follow you.

In fact,

I sometimes head the wrong way –

Away from fellowship,

Away from you.

Disillusioned,

Because of my own lack of understanding,

I get caught up

In my own pity party.

(You have no idea what I’ve been through.)

As I dare

To tell you all about you

            Your life

            Your death

You point me to the Scriptures

            And the Resurrection.

Please,

Stay with me.

The fellowship is sweet,

And I’d like to know you more.

(I have no idea who you really are to me.)

Time together,

Your perfect love,

My many childish questions

Answered by you,

Patient teacher.

Oh!

Savior!

There you are.

You were beside me all along.