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Adriatic_Expansions
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Name: Miss Lady (Adria)
Country: United States
Metro: Modesto
Interests: The Christian faith, loving fearlessly, living with my hands open, saving the world, beautiful thoughts (true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, or praiseworthy), breathing, giving my life away, people, quixotism, sesquipedalianism, stars, writing, testifying to the eternal truth and grace of Jesus Christ, jabberwocky, innocence, beautiful music, rain, esotericism, foreign cultures, beautiful books, clouds, green tea, playing piano poorly, alliteration, photographs, dancing, politics, enjoying art, martial arts, Thai food, being barefoot, hunting with my dad, singing in the shower, the many virtues of the color green, smiles, sunrises and sunsets, Shakespeare's sonnets, soul searching, counting airplanes, hymns, grass, mountains, water skiing, sushi, snow skiing, debate, chocolate, snow boarding, admiring scenery, eyelid kisses, Indian food, being out of style, the fragrance of jasmine flowers, climbing trees, serving people with developmental disabilities
Expertise: Hugs, making tea for my friends, and all other means of encouragement I can dream up.
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  youalsoarepsyche
Member Since:
10/19/2003
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| Today, I slipped out of my Physics of Sound class. I love walking through the cluttered upstairs hallway of the science building. Posters of glaciers and rain-forests, cases of skulls and geodes, and scrawled announcements and advertisements tinted yellow by old lighting put me in mind of a brilliant old scientist's attic constructed in strange, narrow dimensions.
The doors of most of the classrooms were open, and I can never help but look in out of curiosity. In the first class I passed, the lights were turned off. Two men were standing at the front of the class playing guitar, and the overhead was projecting the lyrics of a hymn. The stadium-style classroom, dotted with students only periodically made visible by reflected light, was filled with worshipful voices.
In the next classroom, science majors (identifiable anywhere on campus by their sweatshirts, pulled-back hair, and excessively tired eyes) were measuring liquids delicately in beakers. I could still hear the strains of the hymn floating above the deliberate conversations in this classroom.
all creatures of our God and King
Lift high your voice and with us sing
Hallelujah....
I love my school. | | |
| Sometimes, I hate reality checks.
My dream for this summer was to spend a month somewhere in Asia. I've always loved Asia more than anywhere else on the planet, and I was awake most of last night drooling over descriptions of missions trips on Operation Mobilization's website. I called my mom, this morning, savoring the names of Nepal, Myanmar, and India, thinking how wonderful it would be to soak in the beauty of the scenery, the culture, and to share the love of Christ in such places. My mom informed that our financial situation as a family would not permit them to pay my way to any of these countries. Of course, I was never expecting her to do any such thing. Sending out support letters is a perfectly normal part of going on a missions trip. She also explained, however, that our extended family and friends still perceives my family as having the largest income, making her feel that it's awkward for me to send out support letters, asking them for significant sums of money. Money issues are delicate and complicated, and I've never been good at them, but I understand my mom's feelings.
So now I'm not sure what to do: should I pursue the opportunity to go someplace distant, rural, and lovely, or should I content myself with ministry closer to home and more financially responsible, this summer? Mexico would welcome me back with open arms.... I could always get a job at Christian Berets, again.... But....
Sometimes, it's hard to separate my passion for missions and unreached people from the selfish voice in my head that sings, "I want adventure in the great, wide somewhere. I want it more than I can tell...." Listening to my mom's cautionary words made me second guess my motives. And the last page of my OM application now waits unfinished on my computer.
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| My grandma is one of the most precocious women I know. Her name is Georgia, and she’s just as high strung and beautiful as such a name would suggest. She loves to be in charge of things. She’s the type of lady who flourishes in church settings with lots of committees and potlucks. She can dance, sing, and play piano; she’s natural performer. She writes poetry. She knows everybody around her and asks about the health of their distant family members by name. She carries around red crayons so that she can correct grammatical errors in menus at restaurants. She’s picky, somewhat short-tempered, delightfully humorous, and unbelievably creative. In short, everyone should envy me for having such a grandma.
I call her “Grammy.”
Grammy, my mom’s mom, married a three star General in the Marines who, long after he retired, still frightened their friends by answering the phone, not with “hello,” but by barking his last name at them: “Buehl!” He was a Vietnam veteran. He died of leukemia, and I have no memories of him. I do know, however, that the remains of his extensive library are the reason I grew up with such books on my shelf such as “The Care of Bonsai Trees,” and a collection of operas recorded on VHS and cassette. My mom’s dad, whom I called Gramps, is almost entirely to blame for my familiarity with opera librettos (I used to read them under my covers at night with a flashlight). Because of him, I owned such classics as a recording of Kiri te Kanawa starring in Die Fledermaus at The Met. Such high tastes seemed to compliment Grammy well, but I always pictured Gramps as a strict, unsmiling man. I think he had a temper. His arguments with Grammy were probably epic.
When I was quite young, I met friend of Grammy’s named John DeBarr. As was befitting for a woman like Grammy, she had met this man while having dinner at the White House.
He was also a General who had been stationed, for a time, at the same base as Gramps. He had also been a lawyer and a professor, among other things. He was brilliant and loved to travel. Despite his impressive military background, John was the nicest man I had ever met. He was extremely wealthy, but even more generous. A widower, John had never had children, and—to my delight—did not understand a single thing about discipline. He firmly believed that my sister and I should have whatever we pleased, and should do whatever we pleased. He loved to watch us play, loved to tell us stories, loved to see us happy. He talked endlessly about how beautiful were, and about how all the boys must be dying to marry us (we told him this was ridiculous, since we were only 5 and 3 years old).
Above all, he was good at make-believe and dress-up. This made him the ideal man.
A short time later, General John Debarr and Grammy took my parents out to lunch. “We want to get married,” they announced, and asked my parents’ permission. My dad—a practical and cautious man—stared at them. “Don’t you think that’s a little rash?” he asked. Nevertheless, my mom gave her mom her blessing to remarry. John asked, not only my parents, but my mother’s three sisters, for permission to marry Grammy, as well.
So it was that, around the age of 5, I was a flower girl in my grandparents’ wedding. I wore and frilly dress and black, shiny shoes. I was very proud of those shoes.
Grandpa John, as we all came to call him, not only married Grammy, but legally adopted my mother and her sisters. He became absolutely a part of the family. He went from being a widower with no children to married man with four daughters and twenty-something grandchildren.
Grandpa John lived in Coronado in a big house that sat right on the beach. His house was full of souvenirs from countless places around the world. Most of these objects were breakable and expensive but, as a child, I remember touching them all, examining them, running to Grandpa John with some mysterious object to hear the story that it undoubtedly held. One story in particular brought tears to my eyes. While in the military, Grandpa John had given a can of beans to a hungry man who, later, saved his life. Some object in the house had been a parting present of thanks. On another occasion, the examination of a crystal camel figurine brought Grandpa to tell us what it was like to ride a camel across the desert. Some pictures and signed letters prompted Grandpa to tell us about his work in Washington, and some connection he’d had with the Nixon administration.
Grandpa John was active. When we would visit him, my sister and I would always sleep in late, and just be eating breakfast or turning on PBS (TV was a Grandpa’s-house-treat, since it was strictly against the rules at home) when Grandpa John would return from his 6a.m. rounds of tennis. My dad, an extremely athletic man, would play against him in these early morning games, and would usually lose.
The years passed, however, and Grandpa John’s 80th birthday was celebrated with much fanfare. Shortly thereafter, he began experiencing inexplicable pain in his legs. The pain was so excruciating that he could not walk. My grandparents sold their beautiful Coronado home, auctioned off most of my Grandpa’s treasures, and moved close to us, in Modesto, where my Grandpa John could visit a pain specialist that my dad knew. They were not happy, however, even though we were overjoyed to have them so close to us. My Grandma’s temper frightened me. Grandpa John began losing to me at cards—something that had never happened before, unless he was letting me win. None of the many medical procedures provided more than temporary relief.
My mom, concerned about my grandparents’ happiness, decided they needed to move away from us. She found a center in Riverside for retired military, and their families, run by the Air Force. Again, my grandparents sold a house, a few more treasures, and moved to a house in Air Force Village West. Grammy wouldn’t have to cook, anymore. There were activities, a golf course, and—when the time came for it to be needed—and assisted living facility... and a nursing home.
It wasn’t many years after this transition that a new diagnosis, in addition to the mysterious pain, startled us: Alzheimer’s. It was difficult to believe that my grandpa, who had more knowledge of politics, foreign affairs, and law than anyone I knew, would ever lose his memory. With each visit, however, I watched it become a reality. He began repeating questions. His conversations grew shorter. He watched more TV.
Alzheimer’s is a strange disease. Sometimes, it seems to completely alter personalities. Other times, it just seems to distill a person’s character, until only remnants of the most engrained bits are left. A friend of mine, whose mother-in-law had Alzheimer’s, said she had always believed that her mother-in-law was self-centered woman, who covered her selfishness manipulation and guilt. As Alzheimer’s began to strip away her clever speech and victim-like guise, just the bare truth, remained: her demands on the people around her became explicit and nasty. My friend said that she felt that this was the behavior that had been lying beneath the surface all of her mother-in-law’s life.
As Grandpa John’s sharp wit fades, and his ability to recall facts becomes less reliable, what remains is, indeed, a reflection of what is most important to him. His conversations now center almost entirely on the other person. He does talk much about himself, as some older people do, unless asked. He tells me how beautiful I am, and what a lady I’ve become. He asks me how school is, and politely enquires if I’m too busy. Then he asks me if I’m hungry. We fall silent. A few minutes later, he repeats the conversation.
Grandpa John has always loved food. But, more than loving to eat it, himself, he would constantly try to feed the rest of us, it seemed, just to have the pleasure of watching us eat. Now, with the sincerity of the utter gentleman that he is, the things he most wants to know about me are: “How are you?” and “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” He’s so attentive, genuine, and patient that, if one were to only have a few lines of conversation with him, then walk away, it would be impossible to tell that his memory was not perfectly intact. His generosity and concern for others, his deep love for his children, permeates every repetition of every question.
Two weeks ago, he wandered away from home (he can still walk a little, with the help of a walker). He was found in a driveway, fallen, with a broken hip and femur. After his surgery, he stayed in the nursing home, recovering. While there, he fell twice, again, dislocating his hip both times, and needing two additional surgeries. With the third fall, he fractured his femur, again, in another location.
I want to see him so badly.
As a child, I would hear about other deaths, other illnesses of the elderly. I would imagine in horror, with the morbid mind of an inexperienced child, what a funeral in my own family. Grandpa John was the oldest person I knew, and I was conscious of the fact that he was growing older, and would one day die. In most of my thoughts, through, he seemed to me immortal. Any man nearing 80 who could still play tennis at 6 a.m. couldn’t possibly be aging. Besides, it seemed to me that he’d already been alive forever and had survived every possible experience. There was no reason why he couldn’t simply keep living.
Now, my thoughts are perhaps not very different. I count years and think about probabilities—but still with the surreal impression that it isn’t possible....
Anyways, I think the point of my long story is to tell you about a beautiful soul, a soul with dignity and compassion and rare virtues.
And to ask you to pray, because I love him.
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| It's high time I blow the dust off of this, my online thought-space, and say something of the life in me. Declaring life and grace was originally why I began writing, here. For such a long time, my fingers refused to lift a pen. Ink was too black, and my heart too heavy. Now, joyously, day has come. I am burdened, still, but I have seen healing. As King David prayed, the bones God broke are rejoicing.
I've been rediscovering the beauty of lingering in the presence of God. As the weather warmed, a few weeks ago, it is spring in my soul. Now, as the rains come, again, I sigh in small challenges, and remember what lightness, what grace, has been mine. I read my Bible, and know that it brings life. I see beauty, again, in what is around me.
I know that these easy places in the road do not last. But, for now, I can give thanks for it.
My heart has found that it cannot leave its Master's side, no matter how painful the way. It has had victories over itself. Last semester, I remember walking by the prayer chapel and turning the other direction, promising to stop by, later. It would be too hard. The presence of God would come and the weight of holiness would crush my soul. I didn't want to feel it. Now, I can hardly walk by the prayer chapel without hearing the sweet call of the Spirit, stopping in my tracks, and entering for a few moments to breathe.
Last semester began with hymns forced between my teeth, barely whispered and painful at every syllable. My own dedication to a path--and to a Master--pressed down on me. It seemed the weight of the universe, of sin and light and apathy and faith, would crush my heart. The valley was deep and not called Death, but Resignation.
This semester began in lightness, in solace, in love. My heart has jumped with fear, at times, and I have been weak, but the sun is energetically glowing. The valley has been transcended. Grace has proven strong, and the night has ended, for now. I know some new pain is waiting for me, perhaps at the next turn. This, however, is a time for celebration.
Even now, I would not want this morning to last. I this world, there must be ngihts and trials. They teach me to love. In the Heavenly City, there will be only day. Until the end of time and the renewal of the cosmos, I will pass from night to night, and take joy in the glory of mornings.
Years ago, I walked down the street in the neighborhood, barefoot. I had just developed an idea, you see, that feeling the ground beneath my feet was worth the small risk of injury. I stepped more cautiously. I memorized the sidewalk from looking down. I looked up more often, because my steps were slower, and there was time to look around. Even the mere danger of being barefoot, of being vulnerable to careless, sharp objects in my path, thrilled me, in a way. My walk suddenly meant more, because it required consent to a possible sacrifice. And, one night, when I was jumping down from a curb, I landed on a piece of glass. I left a trail of bloody footprints all the way home. And what I think, even now, is that those footprints were worth it. Touching the earth gingerly, trembling, cold at times, was worth the pain. And, at times, life journeys that we can take with our shoes off, or our shoes on. Perhaps everything else will be precisely the same, except some small vulnerability. Perhaps it changes nothing. But, after walking carefully over earth that becomes dear from physical touch and careful glances, you will see how it really does change. The shields we put up to keep our hearts from feeling, to keep our hearts hidden from ourselves and from the world, change everything. Let them down. Unbandage the wounds. Suck the marrow out of life, even when the flavor is distasteful. Take off your shoes. It's holy ground, and feeling it will bless your soul.
I really have nothing to say, except to smile.
(It's just overflow.)
There are many reasons not to smile. But the evidence of God in my life flies over them all. Come, Lord Jesus. Bring the Day.
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| Since I drank most deeply of life with you—
Since simple structures sank beneath the rising
Antiphon to smaller theologies and poor pulpit probabilities,
Approached by way of mauve grapevines stomped on welcoming green carpet,
Their decade waving piteous farewell to worn out shepherds—
Since we plunged weather-beaten flags into hidden beaches
Announcing no victory, but a white, understated surrender
To a melody half heard, half a hummed extrapolation
Inferred by river reed water and sunlight mirages,
I cannot sever my interpretation of twilights from your voice
Or reopen the precious spaces, the persistent shelter of reverent words.
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