Eureka!

 

While I was in Eureka, California, with Mhairi recently, we had the awesome privilege of sharing a meal with Betty Kwan Chinn, whose life story, When the Gray Bird Sings, is written by Dr Karen Price (and read on audio book by Mhairi). Betty, whose early life was one of unimaginable horror and suffering during the Cultural Revolution in China, escaped, was rescued, and she has lived and continues to live a life laid down for others as she seeks out those who are homeless and lost in addictions and offers shelter, life and hope for them. She is an extraordinary woman, full of humility and grace, still, in her late sixties, working 7 days a week, often deep into the night out on the sand dunes alone looking for the lost.

As a 7-year-old, Betty spent a few years chained to a garbage heap at the edge of her town, where she survived on excrement and whatever she could reach within the length of her tether.

In my prayer window this morning, I was looking at the wooden cross Mhairi gave me last Christmas. Rather than being the shape of a cross, it is a rectangle of smooth wood in which a thin but strong cross has been cut. The road is narrow to eternal life, and it is through the cross of Jesus that we enter.

Last weekend, I met a university friend in Amsterdam for a couple of days. My back was sore; her shoulder hurt: we still managed to laugh a lot. After she boarded her river cruise, I had a few hours on my own in the city before catching a flight back to Aberdeen. I had brought a backpack only as carry-on, thinking that would be easier for walking the cobbled streets of Amsterdam.

I thought there wasn’t much in my backpack, but it seemed surprisingly heavy, especially with a sore back, and led to my sitting long in a café.

I thought I’d only brought the essentials, but I know I could have left things behind and been less weighed down. I could have enjoyed Amsterdam more had I had less in my backpack.

The unseen backpack I carry through life is stuffed full of all sorts of things which could prevent me from getting through that narrow pass outlined by the Cross. Fears. Doubts. Memories which can weigh heavily.

I think of what must be in Betty’s backpack, which she must be laying down, throwing down even, daily. I pray for all who carry real rocks of suffering in their backpacks: Lord, help them to jettison them and instead be set free to be filled with the light and life of your love.

Lord, help me this morning to swing that pack off of my shoulders and abandon it once more at the foot of your cross, so that I can enter your gates with thanksgiving in my heart, your courts with praise.

Spinal musings

 

Yesterday, I thought my back pain was lessening. This morning, I am stiffer than ever. What is it with sore backs? What is the key to complete healing?

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. This morning I was thinking about the darkness of violence and unrest which is sweeping across the planet just now. And I was encouraged by that verse. However dark things appear, Jesus is the light and he is in control.

I offer up the darkness of an injured spine and muscles in spasm, and I pray that the light will shine in that darkness, leading me to wise decisions in how I move and what I do today.

Whatever transpires, this is a glorious, autumnal day: frosty overnight, clear blue skies this morning and one of our glorious cock-pheasants looking for tidbits on the drive.

Thank you, Jesus. This is the day which you have made, a gift and a wonder.

Divine Hot Water Bottle

 

I position the hot water bottle against my back, and audibly sigh. The comfort radiates through the rubber, the clothing, and into those knotted muscles, bringing some relief. Unfortunately, I doubt that it does anything to actually bring healing to whatever has happened in the spine. I think the miracle of healing that will come with time and the divine design of our self-healing bodies.

Family and friends can be the hot water bottles we need as we navigate the troubled waters of life. Their love and attention comfort us in loss and pain. I am so grateful for the loving family and friends God has blessed me with. But nobody can get to the real source of our invisible pain except our loving creator.

Others can ease the symptoms. Jesus can heal the wounds.

Thinking of all those in real trouble today, real loss and heartbreak, fear and pain. I cry out to God to step in, to reach out, to touch those in despair and anguish. May they sense your loving presence in the midst of their travails.

 

So much to be thankful for

 

Two months’ disruption. Mom’s death precipitated my being away in California most of the month of August. I already had plans to visit her in September, along with taking a road trip with Mhairi up the coast, so that drew me back across the pond, and then, three days after returning to Scotland, I was off again. This time for a weekend in Amsterdam, meeting my university friend, Joanne, who was about to embark on a river cruise.

In the midst of it all, I went to an exercise class with my cousin’s wife and hurt my back. At last, today I get to see the physio, and am praying for relief.

I am delighted to be back in my home, back in my prayer window, back with my dear husband Don, who is so loving and supportive. Breakfast in bed. Wow.

My attention was drawn to the small collection of olive wood figures there. Two crosses of different designs, and two pairs of praying hands. The smaller I bought in Jericho when there with Mom 15 years ago; the larger she bought at the same time. Now I have them both.

As I bow my head and sometimes bring my hands together like that, I sense her larger hands embracing mine, her prayers mingling with mine, her love as strong as ever.

Love never dies. Life continues on, in a different place, in a different way.

I am so grateful for all of God’s amazing gifts. Especially for Jesus, whose sacrifice saves us and who never leaves us. I lift my arms in praise and love, thanksgiving and hope, confident in his faithful promises, grateful for his constant presence.

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.