When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the infant leaped in her womb, and Elizabeth, filled with the Holy Spirit, cried out in a loud voice and said, “Most blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And how does this happen to me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?”
Luke 1:41-43
I write this from a seat in my local parish church, putting my pen to the page in between gazes at my Lord in the Eucharist. There are a dozen or more others scattered through the pews, each in quiet prayer of adoration. I see only Him though, held in a shining, golden monstrance on the altar. The words of St. Peter on the mountain of Christ’s transfiguration keep repeating in my ears.
Lord, it is good for us to be here. It is good for us to be here.
After some time, the Holy Spirit shifts the words in my mind.
How good it is of you, Lord, to be here with us.
With the Incarnation of the Son on the first Christmas, God came to live among us. In baptism, He makes our souls His dwelling place. In the Eucharist, He becomes the Bread of Life to sustain us.
What goodness, what generosity, what love there is in the Lord’s choice to be here. How kind and merciful. How marvelous. When the Lord came to her, Elizabeth’s soul and even the child within her recognized His presence. She responded with joy and awe, speaking in grateful praise. I pray that my soul responds similarly to Christ’s presence.
How good it is that He comes to us. How good it is of Him to be Emmanuel, God With Us.
Do you not know or have you not heard? The Lord is the eternal God, creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary, and his knowledge is beyond scrutiny.
Isaiah 40:28
This passage is as familiar as my favorite sweater. I, like many others, find reassurance in it; a reassurance that has carried me through moments made for weariness. It dawned on me today how much of my fondness for the passage comes from the verses that follow, rather than from the one I quoted here. Those verses speak of soaring and running with renewed strength. They speak of what God does for me.
How can there be so much reassurance in what the scriptures say God can and will do for me? Why am I bolstered by every reminder that the Lord is my strength, or that in Him I can be courageous? The answer, simple and true, is because of who God is. Every facet of His nature builds the most reliable of fortresses.
God’s promises are worth my attention. There is no fault in standing on the grounds of what He has done for me, what He is doing for me, and what He will do for me. In fact, it is what should occur if I am the woman of faith I aim to be.
However, for those grounds to remain standing through the most trying lows, they need to be laid upon the bedrock of God’s nature. In all that He is, I can see both how and why He does what He does. Knowledge of Him leads to glorifying Him, and both lead to a sustained faith across every hill and valley.
Lord, with every praise I might offer, may I love you more for who You are than for what You may accomplish for my sake. In this way, You will render me able to love as You love me.
You are all good.I praise You, Lord.
You are perfect love.I submit to You, Lord.
You are all knowing. I trust You, Lord.
You are eternal. I worship You, Lord.
You are present through the heavens and the earth, without exception. I bow before you, Lord.
You are the creator and sustainer of all life.I owe everything to You, Lord.
You are God, in whose image I am made. I glorify You, Lord.
It’s been more than a year now since I set change in motion. After the divorce became official a few weeks ago, my thoughts began often reviewing the past year. Then last night, looking for a specific photo, I paused on the first picture in this video. Day one… papers signed… gladness lighting me up.
How far I’ve come, free of doubt and full of effort. More than a year of rediscovery of my real self. The me that was silenced and gaslit (by me) for over a decade, for a relationship that did likewise. I’ve spent this year relearning how to listen to myself and my Lord.
It’s been a year of rescue, and it turns out rescue can be enormously painful. I am rebuilding trust. I work daily at rejecting fear and choosing forgiveness. Placing the years of abuse, manipulation, and resulting bitterness into God’s hands (repeatedly), I receive peace, relief, and joy in return.
He does indeed restore my soul and I will praise Him.
Today is my sister’s birthday and I woke up with a familiar ache in my heart. Something I’ve learned about grief is it’s not all that accurate to say it gets easier with time. Rather, the spaces between the difficult moments gradually grow larger.
It’s been a good while since I’ve had an especially emotional day of grief, but when it came today, it felt much like so many days crammed into the last three years. Today arrived with the same instantly recognizable longing for my sister–to hear her voice and laugh, to see her smile, to know she is here and will be here tomorrow.
Stepping outside with my Bible as the day began, I spotted the new blossoms in my bed of irises. Somehow their purple and white petals brought my mind round to Cheryl’s red and pink rose bushes. I sat down to read and pray but my thoughts remained unsettled, and I soon found myself standing in front of the flowers again. I caught the odor of lilacs from the bush a few feet away. The first bunches of blossoms had opened and the scent pulled me closer.
Cheryl loved lilacs as much as I do. I gave up blinking away my tears and inhaled the gorgeous scent. In my mind’s eye, I could see the text I would’ve sent with a photo.
The lilacs bloomed for your birthday! They smell heavenly.
How I wanted to send that text.
The tears came and went through the day. I confided in a friend who knows the pain of losing family to terrible cancer battles, and pushing through the workdays despite the distraction of that pain. I glanced through favorite photos and smiled at her smile. Cheryl hovered in my thoughts in each hour, sometimes in the foreground and sometimes in the back. When evening came and my kids were settled at their dad’s for the night, the restlessness crowded me in the quiet of my home. You know, that restlessness that comes with a longing that can’t be eased.
Take a walk.
The suggestion rose over the mental noise. I wanted a walk with Cheryl though.
Cheryl loved walks. I loved walking with Cheryl. I think we all did. Walking with Cheryl meant talking with Cheryl. She rarely pushed the pace because, I suppose, if you were out of breath you couldn’t be talking. Cheryl didn’t do much small talk. A little perhaps, but it’d pass quickly and the rest was spent on the real stuff. That’s not to say every conversation was intense, but every conversation was intentional. Cheryl knew what mattered and didn’t pretend otherwise. She treated time with you as a valuable part of her day. She listened. She drew you out. On a walk was a natural time to do all of that.
As I walked tonight, I thought how it’d be if she were at my side. We’d comment on the proud orange poppies swaying in the dim twilight. Marveling at the sunset, we might voice a scripture verse or worship song brought to mind by the beauty. She would ask questions that got to the heart of whatever burdened my shoulders. Walks with Cheryl were a treasure.
I want another. I want to end it in my front yard where we can smell the lilacs. But I’m thankful the lilacs are here. I’m grateful for each walk that we had. I’m eager for the walks we’ll take again someday.
I know the walks with her have not run out. There’s only more space in between them.
“I want to be with God and receive God and have him in my heart every day all day.”
Annie’s 1st Eucharist is approaching and this was her note written at the end of yesterday’s retreat day for the 2nd graders preparing for the sacrament. Today when we came home from Mass, she and Tim were playing. In the middle of a Lego battle, Tim paused and looked at her.
“I’m so excited for you to receive Communion.”
Oh, the beauty of a child’s faith. That eagerness to encounter Jesus. These two little people have no idea how often they help renew my joy.
The nose of my kayak dipped into the dark water at five-thirty. The five mile drive to the boat launch was a friendly race with the first streaks of color. No matter how many times I watch a sunrise, I am surprised by how rapidly it passes through its succession of colors. When I launched into the lake, everything reached by the light was bathed in a pink glow.
The view as I launched into Little Elkhart Lake (Plymouth, WI).
The crisp air of the new day, the mist riding atop the warm water, and the sun’s processional march of color were a breathtaking combination. God makes beautiful places, I thought over and over again.
Little Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WI
This lake is edged by several homes, a youth camp, and abundant forest. At that hour, it was silent on every side. I was the only person on the lake and, at least in the first stretch, hardly more than a few birds had yet to break the quiet. I paddled and drifted. Paddled and drifted. The mist was invitingly mesmerizing, but each time I moved further into it, I paused to cease even the noise of my paddle cutting in and out of the water.
Little Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WI
The silence was magnificent.
As the pinks and oranges gave way to blue, and the sun crept nearer the tops of the tree line, the bird calls multiplied. When I sat still, I could hear the flutters of wings and creaks of branches as the trees’ residents stirred to life. Before the sun crested the trees, the shadows slid away from the top down.
Little Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WILittle Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WI
Eventually, maybe an hour in, came another kayaker. When she spotted me watching something on the edge of a little island, she drew closer and I pointed out the Great Blue Heron standing among the lily pads.
Great Blue Heron, Little Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WI
She was perhaps around 75, best guess, with a soft voice and smile. She asked how early I’d arrived and remarked on the goodness of enjoying the lake before it was busy with boats and the waves that follow them. She told me about the oldest heron nesting on the lake year after year, whom she calls Grandpa. We watched the heron on the island until it flew off with a whooshing flap of its blue-feathered wings. I wished her a good day as she moved on and I felt a vague sense of what it’d have been like to be there at that moment with my great-grandmother when she was the same age. Something in the woman’s manners had called my Grandma Walcher to mind right off.
Little Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WI
I took my time skimming along the curves of the lake. Fish came to the top in clouds of bubbles. Turtles poked their triangle heads through the surface. The birds were musically relentless. Apart from the surfacing creatures though, the water remained flat and still. If I stopped paddling, even in the open spaces, the kayak barely drifted. Shining reflections doubled the views in every direction.
Little Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WILittle Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WI
Around seven a.m., I told myself it was time to make my way back to the boat launch. I’d have time to drive home, unload the kayak, and shower before logging into work for the day. With a a bit of convincing, I pointed my boat in that direction.
From behind me, I heard a call of “Hooo! Hello!”
A soft shout coming from my co-kayaker. I turned around and we drew up beside each other.
“If you go back along the trees, there’s another heron. He’s on some dead branches almost all the way to the corner. They love to feed there.”
How am I to turn away from a tip like that one? Getting home could wait. I thanked my new friend before paddling where she directed. I wondered if asking to have tea and cookies with her later would be too odd.
Sure enough, he was exactly where she’d described. Perched, watching and waiting for more breakfast. He was beautiful.
Great Blue Heron, Little Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WI
Amazingly, he didn’t mind me one bit as I floated closer. I stopped among the first of the lily pads and sat still once again. Birds called to each other unceasingly. A pair of cranes began making a racket from a distant section of shoreline. I wondered if he was Grandpa, here for enough years to go about his day without concern over the noisy business of others (including intrusive humans in kayaks). Perhaps he was Grandpa, because he didn’t even stir when the morning bugle song rang out from the opposite side of the lake to rouse the campers from their bunks.
Blue Heron and the Bugler
Leaving the heron to his morning meal, I did finally resolve to be on my way. That vocal pair of cranes and another heron provided more delightful distractions before I reached the boat launch.
Sandhill Cranes’ Chatting Over Breakfast
Sandhill Cranes, Little Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WI
Heron (possibly Great Blue Heron morphing out of white phase), Little Elkhart Lake, Plymouth, WI
The bird life among the reeds and cattails seemed to double in my final minutes on the water. It was now a quarter to eight, the sun fully up and me due at my desk very soon. Even though I couldn’t stay to sit among more of those birds or watch more schools of fish pop up to the shimmering surface, my joy from the morning was overflowing. It bubbled out in a laugh as I pulled my boat out of the water. I shook my head at all the pieces of beauty I’d encountered in the last two hours. I laughed more, and thanked God again and again.
It was the perfect recipe. Perfect, though we couldn’t have known it before all the ingredients were there.
One small, midwestern town, where family lines run deep even as the population dwindles.
One school with a void where the music and band programs used to be.
One grand idea by an alumnus.
A few dozen eager alumni plus a handful of current high schoolers; all qualified band geeks.
One natural leader grabbing the reins with equal parts optimism and get-it-done practicality.
Homecoming Night
Nostalgia, added to taste.
When I graduated high school and then left for college in 1999, I was in one frame of mind: don’t look back. I wanted new, more, and different. It took years and plenty of road behind me to appreciate my school age years. I’m still working on it, honestly.
My parents continue to live in Stephenson, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. As well, at least a few members of our family have resided within a reasonable drive of our hometown since graduating high school. All seven of us siblings have made it a priority, as life allows, to continue gathering at the home in which we all grew up. So, fully leaving behind my small town roots was never my path, and for that I’m thankful.Â
In more recent years of this age of social media, I found myself reconnecting with high school friends. It was exciting to discover where our roads took us. Some were surprising and some not. I began to appreciate the memories with these individuals and enjoyed seeing each other’s adventures and families on Facebook and Instagram. Still, I didn’t attend reunions or make a point of reconnecting in person with more than a scant few people.
Among the best of my high school memories are the band memories. I loved band. There were only a few high school classes or programs I’d say that about, and band might be at the top of the list. So, when I was invited to join a Facebook group a few months ago called SHS Alumni Pep Band, my curiosity was high from the start.
Sawbridge Studios copyright 2022
The idea came from my old friend Ron. He’d recently learned that the Stephenson schools are now without both a music and band program. It saddened him, as it did all of us discussing it on the group’s page, and he proposed that we bring back the pep band for homecoming night of the varsity boys’ basketball season. The delightfulness of the idea was apparent, but could we do it? Was it even practical to try? Did any of us remember how to play? With ample brainstorming and reminiscence, enough people committed to the plan and there was no looking back.
I found myself signing on for my first hometown event in 22 years, and the closest thing to a high school reunion I’d yet to experience.
The level of interest and the reach of the appeal was fascinating. We became a group spanning five decades of graduating years. Literal generations in the same ensemble.
A couple months out from the homecoming game, we scrambled to find usable instruments and resurrect our dormant skills. Scott, a fellow ’99 graduate who lives in Stephenson again with his family, jumped on the tasks of digging up sheet music for each instrument and dispersing them online for all of us. He reserved the band room, now set up for Spanish classes, so local alumni could practice together.
I took my saxophone in for a tune up (aka to make it functional again) and borrowed a former bandmate’s extra alto sax to start practicing in the meantime. Later I found out my instrument, used when my parents bought it for my older sister before handing it down to me, would cost several hundred dollars to repair. The repairman was frank about it not being worth the investment. I’m still sad over not playing that saxophone again but thank goodness for my friend’s loaner.
Relearning the old pep band standards felt like a montage of comedically inspiring efforts. It was slow to start but eventually my fingers remembered what they were doing and my lungs built up a smidgen of endurance. It took a little longer each practice before my jaw started aching.
After a few weeks, I still doubted I could play the songs with other people. When it worked out to be in Stephenson for one of the Sunday afternoon practices, I loaded up the saxophone and arrived at the high school with all sorts of nerves. However, it only took stepping through the door of the old band room for those nerves to change to joy. We warmed up our instruments and greeted each other enthusiastically. I felt that coming-home feeling that belongs to the rare pieces of youth made up of only good things. Whatever that piece might be for you, for me it was band.
What I got a taste of during that practice was in full force on homecoming night.
The gymnasium was filled to the doors. Where typically only half of the bleachers are pulled out to hold the fans, this time every section was packed with people. That alone set the tone for the alumni band. There was a hint of stepping back in time to the games of our own high school years, when it was unheard of to only fill up half the gym. The entirety of the band seemed to adopt an unspoken mission to answer the excitement of that crowd with generous enthusiasm in our songs. Personally, my children’s eagerness to see their mom play in the band was contagious. I was thrilled to watch my family’s proud faces as they spotted me on the bleachers.
In the end, I think we thoroughly surprised ourselves. We were somehow all members of the same band despite our widespread ages. Playing together felt natural. The presence of our beloved band directors – teachers who remain favorites in countless students’ hearts – challenged us to hit the right notes… and roll through the notes we missed.
Sawbridge Studios copyright 2022
I can’t summarize everyone else’s emotions from that night but all of mine were tethered back to gratitude. As I write this a month later, that is still what I feel more than anything else.
For the crowd’s call for more songs after the game finished. For hugging my band directors. For blooking around from my seat on that bleacher and seeing friends. For the reminder of the greatness of a small town, and the celebration of the gift of music to a community and school. I’m grateful for all of it and for playing a part in it.
After the game, many of us trekked out to Belgiumtown Bar & Restaurant, a country tavern a few miles off the highway with delicious food and the friendliest bartenders around. They stayed open hours past their normal closing time and we savored minute after minute of visiting over drinks, laughter, and old favorites on the jukebox.
The reconnection of that night with the friends, the town, and myself filled my soul with good things. There’s no mistaking the value of it in this (and every) era of our lives. I hope very much that each person who played in the band or attended the game that night received a share in that goodness.
Carrie In Writing 