Setting Sun Over Michigan in Three Acts

One sun setting on an icy planet.  One sun setting the stage for ‘Setting Sun Over Michigan in Three Acts'.   With the days growing longer, we emerged from our dormant shells to document this single event; the waning light hitting our pods at the slightest of intervals, husks bursting forth to push people into the light all over the state.   The photographic evidence held all the mystery of an unexplained occurrence and captured attention on everyone’s favorite social network.  "Did you see it?"  "Here in Saugatuck we did!"  And in Traverse City.  And from my sister at the edge of no man’s land on the northern shores of Lake Superior (where I am sure she can see the North Pole from her house!).  It appeared in the sky like a beacon!  Like a sign!  Like a promise!  “Spring forward” is near.  And it’s more than something to rob an hour of repose or make everyone late for church some Sunday morning in the not too distant future.  Though we lie dormant, we are still hurling through space, pressing forward into the next season, earth peeling back layers of dark matter to break through to light; light giving birth to life.

Act 1: Saugatuck Sunset courtesy of Clay Lubber - 2/13/11

Act 2: Traverse City Sunset courtesy of Angela Josephine - 2/13/11

Act 3: Copper Bay Sunset courtesy of Gina Louis-Mercier - 2/13/11

To Call My Own

I’ve been in the process of giving birth to a home recording studio for the past two weeks but I have to admit that it has not been the liberating and fulfilling journey hoped for. Instead, it has been a series of intense contractions and unflattering pushes with lulls to consider it all. I’ve sent back one breakout box in favor of another which necessitated uninstalling software that I’ll only have to reinstall in 3 days time when the new box gets here. My monitors are too large and the room is too small. There’s something oozing from the concrete under the carpeting and I think whoever chose fire engine red for the walls a few years back must be a crazy woman. (Or she will be shortly.) When this baby arrives however, you can bet I’ll be handing out cigars and passing around photos. If I can just survive the labor! I’m not demanding perfection. I’m just hoping for a healthy, happy sacred space to call my own.

That Kind of Day

“I have found that in the simple act of living with hope… the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious.” – Elizabeth Edwards

I’ve got a big pot of chili bubbling away on the stove with just the right amount of two favorite secret ingredients to light up my mouth in just the right way because… it’s that kind of day. When I was at the grocery store picking up the ingredients for the chili, a woman mopping the floor kicked the bucket (literally) and declared, “It’s that kind of day!” And I got an email from a friend that said, “What started off as a beautiful morning has turned into the worst possible night." In other words… “It’s that kind of day.”

That beautiful morning, Sandy and her family gathered to lay to rest her sister Brenda, finding closure in the fast and furious disease that took her life. That would have been one kind of day. Except for the arrival of the news that Brenda's ex-husband had died unexpectedly that very same evening. This comes on the heels of a long chain of loss this family has suffered over the past year.  "That kind of day?!"  I can hear Sandy snort right about now, “How about ‘That kind of YEAR!’”  I assure you this is not the ranting of a bitter heart but the dry sarcasm of a woman who missed her calling on SNL. Like when she imagined Brenda confronting her ex ‘up there’…“What the HELL are YOU doing here?! Those kids need you!” I marvel at her sense of humor in the thick of all this crap.  She hasn’t lost hope in the face of ‘that kind of day’. Repetitively.  

This is where I might be tempted to trumpet some trite charge like “Carpe Diem!”. However, the day has been seized, squeezed, spilled and mopped up again. Instead I am just going to agree. It IS ‘that kind of day’. For me with my pot of chili. For Sandy with all that loss. Even for the lady with the mop.

Alive and Well

I don’t care if anyone reads this. What I care about is making sure I write. To hold myself accountable to the simple resolution to be present and aware in my life. To see God in the ordinary. To wake into the sacred day and merge with its sacred pulse. Somehow setting this blog up some time ago set me off balance by the sheer expectation of it. What if I don’t have anything to write? What if the well runs dry and I’m left with a dusty cup and nothing to offer? Well clang, clang… welcome to the inner ramblings of the self-fulfilling prophetess. I’m done rambling and am just going to write, which at times may be nothing more than rambling, but it’s better than nothing. It is something - to show up for my day and acknowledge that the Sacred is there whether I see it or not. So read if you want or not. I’ll be writing regardless, clanging my pen against the cup that overflows and groping for that pulse when it is faint; declaring the Sacred alive and well each time.

Offering - A Poem

by Angela Josephine
(In awareness for the 40,000+ women and children who are victim to human trafficking during the 2010 World Cup)

LISTEN TO OFFERING
click PLAY under title of poem on Reverb Nation page

will heaven rend
will thunder split
this haze of days
my blood
my sweat
your cheer
your hand
raised up in praise
holey voices
wholly raised
a call
the carnal incarnate
your cheer
your hand
my blood
my sweat
our sacrifice
on altar’s bed
your cheer
my blood
your hand
my sweat
holy voices
wholly met?

Fighting Bees

“When I hear a man preach, I like to see him act as if he were fighting bees.” – Abraham Lincoln

“I’m thinking about raising honey bees.”

Airing a statement like that in front of my teenage sons is like rolling out a field of clover to the hive after a long winter. The buzzing begins immediately.

“Don’t you have to actually like being around bees to do that?”

I feel the sting of my youngest son’s unbelief. It is no secret that a bee in my personal space is a sure catalyst for some mad dashing and theatrical vocalizing. I tell him it is all about overcoming my fears (while silently registering the added benefit of not reacting like a nutcase).

“Well, I wouldn’t be afraid of bees if someone (implying his older brother) hadn’t thrown me in a nest when I was in 6th grade!”

With this subtle adjustment, the direction of their flight changes and they are off to fields of rambunctious forget-me-nots… those harrowing accounts of near death experiences and previous conquests that become legend amongst brothers. This fragrant meadow expands with each new visit and I am left feeling a bit like Horton in peril of losing his Whos in all that fluff. Eventually though, their uncanny navigation skills bring them back to the original issue at hand.

“I’d be so afraid that I’d get Africanized bees!” the older brother rants. “They are so crazy.”

Suddenly, I have a clear recollection of a documentary on killer bees that I saw as a child. An awareness as to the source of my phobia begins to emerge.

“They aren’t in Michigan!” the youngest challenges.

“They are in the United States! How do you know they won’t come to Michigan?”

The youngest hovers, not totally sure that he wants to sink his mandibles into this juicy new detail.

“What? You can’t just run away?”

“No - they just decide they don’t like you, attack and sting until you are dead!”

It takes only a split second, but the youngest strikes with lightning-like precision.

“Well, I wouldn’t be afraid. I’d just punch them… like this!” and with dramatic flair he swings his fist into the air...

just as a real-live bee flies through his personal space...

in the middle of our kitchen.

Pause.

“Like that!”

We all explode into laughter.

(There is a moral to this story that I have in mind. Any guesses? HINT: The moral of this story (like the title) is taken from a quote by another previous president.)

His and Hers

There are two chairs by the side of the road. Abandoned partners. His and Hers.

This is a scene right out of Pixar’s animated movie UP, only the chairs have been lifted from Paradise Falls and set down here at the edge of 5 Mile Road. I am looking for balloons caught in the trees – colorful gumballs disappearing into the stratosphere, a chubby Wilderness Explorer named Russell hiding beneath the porch or a rare bird named Kevin following me.

This lonely upholstered pair is “For Sale” and I wonder what memories come with them. Did they seat a couple who dreamed of going places never realized? Or, are the chairs extra baggage – being sold to fund the next big adventure. Maybe this is about survival in these poor economic times. Or perhaps, they just got old. (The chairs that is.)

We have an empty nest facing us in this next month or so and I wonder about the chairs in our home. They have wide, soft memories. They have seated us well in this great adventure. We could be like Carl, the balloon salesman in the film. It could take a court order and the lift of 10,000 helium balloons to get us off our behinds.

Or… we could avoid all the fuss of talking Dobermans in biplanes (sorry, you’ll have to see the movie for that). We could make a choice now to set those chairs purposefully… atop our own Paradise Falls… to serve as our Ebenezer as we move on to the next leg in this big adventure.

“The word "Ebenezer" comes from Hebrew and is actually two words pronounced together: Even Haazer. Written in Hebrew it looks like this:

It is usually transliterated as a proper name by dropping the definite article (Ha) from the Hebrew word for "help" (Ezer) and putting it together with the Hebrew word for "stone" (Even) to create: "Ebenezer." The etymological roots of the word, thus defined, should demonstrate that an "Ebenezer" is, literally, a "Stone of Help."

Literally speaking, an Ebenezer is a "stone of help," or a reminder of God’s Real, Holy Presence and Divine aid. Spiritually and theologically speaking, an Ebenezer can be nearly anything that reminds us of God’s presence and help…” - Dr. Gregory S. Neal