Timeless ...

 

On the seventh floor of this 100-year-old hotel (old for California), I am looking out kitty-corner across the street from the offices of the San Francisco Chronicle. In another life, as a young graduate working in PR for a housing company based in Beverly Hills, I had to try to place articles of interest in the SF Chronicle (in order to sell houses being built in the Bay area). I watch the traffic, and there is a Waymo driverless car, its ‘cherry-on-the-top’ roof structure readily identifying it as such. In an hour, I need to get a cab to meet up with Mhairi, but I am rather hoping I end up with one with a driver made of flesh and bones.

Hemmed in on all sides by high-rise structures, I can’t really see much of the city, but the sun is shining out of a clear blue sky and I am grateful.

On my brief walk to the next door coffee shop for breakfast, a homeless man, bent double, staggered past me in the bike lane, pushing an empty wheelchair in front of him. Signs of a hardened society everywhere: how can this be?

I ordered buttermilk pancakes and fresh fruit, and remembered sitting at the counter of ‘Aunt Jemima’s Pancake House’ somewhere here in San Francisco, umpteen years ago with Mom, Dad and Judy, watching as the fry cook flipped our pancakes and then squashed all the air out of them with the back of the spatula. My dad was our pancake cook and he was appalled. The pancakes were tough as leather. It became a family story we laughed about for years.

I ate my light and fluffy pancakes to cheerful background music from Turkey, served by Turkish immigrants. They were great – the pancakes and the people.

I’ve enjoyed the graciousness of this old building. The bathroom door, kind of warped or else so thick with layers of paint that it won’t properly close, adds to the charm. The wooden trim speaks of a time when building standards were not so conforming, when builders had time to be craftsmen.

Every day I marvel at the way God released me to plan this trip with Mhairi before I knew Mom was going to pass away before it. I am grateful for every experience. The sore back has not been fun, but I am grateful that despite it, I have been able to do everything.

Including lowering myself into a deep hot spring above the awesome coastline at Esalen in Big Sur. That was luxury laid on by Almighty God.

I am so blessed.

 

Homeless and Holidaymakers

 

We drove towards the hotel, and as we neared the address, we noticed more and more homeless people on the sidewalks. The weather is beautiful here in San Francisco, but what do these poor people do when it turns?

This morning, I walked to Fisherman’s Wharf. I walked alone with memories, so many memories of visiting The City first with Judy, Mom and Dad as a child, and many times since with various combinations of family.

Again, so many homeless people. Everywhere.

I passed a stand with a sign: Go Bananas! A lady handed me a beautiful banana, which I enjoyed as I continued walking. Someone trying to do something to help.

On Pier 39, so many tourists browsing the shops, looking for ways to spend their souvenir money. Lots of cowboy hats being sold, and sweatshirts and ball caps. I had a bowl of clam chowder. As good as ever.

I stood on the edge of the pier, watching as seals and sea lions frolicked in the bay, as those primeval pelicans swooped past in formation, all between us and Alcatraz, the notorious prison which I visited many a year ago with Mom, Dad, Doug and Robbie. A woman posed for her man, smiling brightly, Alcatraz in the background.

I thought of the stories we were told when we visited Alcatraz, about the desperate prisoners, who could hear the sounds of laughter and life across the water, trying to swim to freedom towards the bridge. Many became meals for sharks. So much sadness.

I sat on a bench and looked at the Golden Gate Bridge. My grandma’s favourite song was ‘I left my heart in San Francisco’, crooned by Nat King Cole. I sang it softly under my breath, remembering. Wondering if it was such a different place then, or not.

Back in my hotel room, there is a fairly frequent serenade of sirens. A huge contrast to the beauty and peace of Big Sur, where we were on Sunday and Monday morning.

That’s another story.

The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it. I have seen a bit of everything today. Lord, have mercy.

Nothing else

 

I walked down to Redondo Beach yesterday, rather gingerly as I’ve hurt my back through an over-enthusiastic exercise class in the morning.

I stood on the shore, watching as gentle waves rolled in, erratically rather than rhythmically. Often the waves here crash in one after the other, sweeping the unwary wader off their feet (ask Don about that!). But yesterday they broke softly and sparingly.

I am nearing the end of a long journey walking Mom home. I hesitate to say much because there are one or two things still outstanding to complete, but soon this chaotic, challenging, blessed period will be completely over.

I stood on the shore, remembering. Remembering the tidal uncertainty as we first determined she needed to live in a residential facility for her own safety. Executing that was like surfing a tsunami of boiling emotions – in her and in me. Anger, disbelief, resentment, acceptance, grace, love. Love. Over all, love. Executing that came with a host of challenges: selling the family home, disposing of decades-worth of sentiment and memories, getting to grips with a new set of financial obligations.

It was during those awful days as I drove in tears between house and new residence, that the Lord promised me, in every teardrop there is a rainbow.

Of course, he was right. There have been many teardrops, and many rainbows.

In two days, I will drive out of this oasis my cousin and his wife have provided over these last seven years. They have supported us along this way which had no discernible path, one step at a time. They graciously offered back-up and advice for many situations, feeding and housing me, visiting and loving Mom when I was not here, taking care of things which I couldn’t provide from Scotland. I cannot express adequately the deep, deep gratitude I feel for them.

So that’s another sadness. The bond we have built up over this long pilgrimage is real, and once again, as I leave not knowing when I might be back, I console myself: there are no airports in heaven. No long goodbyes.

Today I will do bits and pieces in preparation for leaving and also for embarking on a road trip Sunday with Mhairi, travelling together to visit friends. Mhairi has very much been part of this journey. For the first years, she was living here and was my eyes and ears. She and her Gramma were each other’s rocks when times were hard. Their love was tested and grounded forever in Jesus. When I visited, we called ourselves the 3 M’s: now, as we drive north, we are the M&Ms.

Today again I plan to walk to the beach and stand on the shore, watching the ever-changing ocean. Trying not to think too deeply, to feel too poignantly, as I prepare to leave behind the rhythm of the last fifteen years and move into a new, alternative rhythm. A fresh rhythm, a new dance, new vistas which will be beautiful as I keep in step with the Lord.

The Israelites couldn’t see God’s footprints through the mud of the parted Red Sea, but they walked through the walls of water anyway, trusting in his provision and protection and guidance.

May I be as faithful as I walk away from Mom’s grave, knowing she is safely home with her Saviour. And as I move forward, perhaps to walk others home or in fact be walked home myself, ‘all my words fall short’.

As the song goes, ‘I have nothing else fit for a king except for a song singing Hallelujah.’

So I throw up my hands, and praise Jesus again and again. He has never left nor forsaken us in this long walk home. And he won’t leave me going forward.

Hallelujah.

Never ran track

 

I never ran track. I never broke through any kind of wall where the running became a joy. It was always a challenge and never fun.

I’m old enough to remember the Kennedy fitness tests we did every spring. The sit-ups, push-ups, softball throw (ugh), 50-yard-dash (do-able), and the 660. That was the worst.

So I’m reading 1 Corinthians this morning about running the race. I’m thinking of track meet events where you see athletes stretching and sprinting in place, bending and twisting and warming up so their bodies are really ready to perform to their maximum ability when that whistle blow or starter gun fires.

How am I doing that spiritually?

I wonder where I am in this spiritual track meet. We all have life events that challenge and stretch us, and I suppose I feel like I’ve been on the sidelines warming up for a long time, stretching to new challenges and often sprinting in place. Or even collapsing or sitting down, not feeling up to the race that stretches in front of me.

Now that my situation is changing, hopefully in a few weeks everything will be completed and I will be in a new season. I want to be intentional in my next event. I want to run with my eye firmly on the prize of seeing Jesus face to face. I don’t want to be distracted by the detritus on the track, the distractions from a possibly hostile crowd, the cramp from not having adequately prepared for what is required of me.

‘Search me, o God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.’ Psalm 139

Redeem the Moments

 

This is one of those weeks I don’t want to waste. Well, I never want to squander time, but it’s rare to get a stretch of days where plans are dropped and I have complete freedom in choosing how to spend them: such a rare gift, I want to use it well.

I am back in Palos Verdes, in a week I had arranged for spending time with Mom, doing whatever needed doing and sitting with her for as long as I could. Instead, on Saturday I spent time at her graveside with Mhairi, grieving, chatting, praying, standing in silence, trying to take it in. Of course, at her grand age we knew it was coming, but still, it’s hard to lose someone you love.

I brought a writing project with me, and my laptop, and hope to gather my scattered thoughts into some coherent thinking and hopefully good writing. The week will be broken up with lunches with old friends, an exercise class with my cousin’s wife, and a trip to the Salvation Army. And then Mhairi and I will embark on our road trip north.

Unless a seed falls into the ground and dies, it can’t produce anything. Lord, as I live into this new reality, may the beautiful seed of Mom’s life flourish through whatever I may write today, so that You will be glorified.

 

Tactile

 

Tactile. I find it helpful to have something in my hands sometimes when I pray. An olive wood cross or praying hands. The beads I wrote of yesterday.

So this morning I was looking at the copper wire holding the disparate beads together. Jesus is that golden thread that holds us together in love. It is so comforting to know that his life flows through each of us and that life is the power that unites us.

This is the crux of the gospel. God is all about relationships. And in his wisdom he created us all so different, that keeping relationships can be challenging at times. Keeping the unity: held together with divine love.

My prayer is for the church universal. If there are such uncomfortable differences within families at times, how much more are there jarring relationships within the church. We latch on to one interpretation or another and begin to think that we have it right so others must be wrong.

Lord Jesus, humble your church and bring us all to recognize that as convinced as we are that we are the ones on the right path with you, we are not infallible. Only you are, Lord. Give us the grace to admit our limitations, the love to share our understanding with conviction and with open ears, and the wisdom to focus our eyes on you and you alone.

May we be a voice for peace, for reconciliation, for hospitality and mercy and grace, in your name, Jesus.

Prayer Bracelet

 

Take-away.

Time in the prayer room last week was sacred. Sacred and yet, kind of mundane. Unremarkable. No angel appeared out of the ether to me. No audible voice cut through the silence. Yet, there was an unseen presence, inviting me to sit back and just ‘be’.

And so I relaxed in the comfy seat and picked up a bit of wire. Invited to string beads as I prayed, I found myself randomly choosing a bead for each member of my family as I prayed for them, then extending those beads and those prayers to friends. I could have gone on and on. There are so many wonderful people in my life: I am so grateful to God for the privilege of praying for them.

This morning as I prayed for my grandchildren, I held this ‘rosary’ of people precious to me. Each bead is unique. A variety of colours, some are round, apparently flawless. Some have sharp edges. Some are tapered; some are straight. All are held together by the thin copper wire on which they are threaded.

Sometimes in families, straight edges chafe against round ones. Sometimes in families, those with a smaller footprint – be it their voice, their place in the family, whatever – feel overshadowed and marginalised by the more colourful, louder ones. I’ve heard it said that it’s in the rubbing that we lose our hard edges; it’s in the settling that we find harmony through Jesus, the wire that holds us all together.

I love the disparity of this stringing of beads. I love that they don’t follow a pattern; they don’t adhere to a colour scheme; they don’t lie straight and slot together perfectly. This is the way the Lord has made our world, vibrant with wild colours and subdued, interesting with geometric shapes and whimsical splashes; all held together in Him.

May we be part of a rising chorus of those celebrating our differences rather than those separating us into categories. May the riot of colour and custom and character rise as a jubilant praise to our amazing creator God.