From A Daughter’s Perspective

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Growing up, our dad had four special ladies in his life.  Mom, his childhood sweetheart and wife of 67 years.  And his three daughters…

Linda, his first born, our oldest sister. The one who made him a dad.  The one who first showed him the love of a father for his child.  The one whom he cherished and adored.

Leslie, his baby, our youngest sister.  The light of his life who could do no wrong.  And even if she could, it wouldn’t matter at all, because she was daddy’s little girl and the apple of his eye.

And Me, the proverbial middle daughter, the Jan of our Brady Bunch.  The one Dad could never quite figure out, but quite liked it that way, and loved me all the more because of it.  (A very middle-daughter perspective, I know, as we middles always feel misunderstood.)

Dad was a simple, soft spoken man.  A man of very few words.  Yet, somehow … and I honestly don’t know how … he made each of his daughters feel as though surely we must be his favorite.

In fact, we didn’t just feel it—we knew it without a doubt.  And I think that made our dad the wisest man upon the face of the earth.

Fathers have an extraordinary ability to influence the lives of their daughters. We never doubted dad’s love for us—it was consistent, it was unconditional, it was Dad.

A good man leaves an inheritance to his children’s children”, the wisdom of King Solomon reveals.  There is no greater inheritance left to a daughter than the unconditional love of her father.

And that is the legacy our dad left for us that we get to pass on to our daughters. The imperfect love of a father on earth–a mere reflection of the perfect love of God, the Father of us all.

Tribute to My Dad

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My dear father crossed the gossamer veil into eternity on Saturday.  The day after I posted “The Wings of the Dawn“.

Somehow I believe the penning of the words, inspired by a sunrise the day before, was my divine preparation for his final bow.  Prophetic catharsis.

With every sunrise, a sunset; with every sunset, a sunrise.  I swap out the photo and change the words slightly, and re-post in his memory.

Love you, dad.  Rest in peace and rise in glory.  Until we meet again …

Harvest moon emerges center stage

As daylight ebbs out of sight

Caught up in a twilight moment in time

He peers through the gossamer veil.

Sun departs into the west with fiery passion

His body surrounded by Light’s embrace

God breathes into him His tender compassions

Carried home upon the wings of the night.

The Wings of the Dawn

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Harvest moon takes its final bow

As the night sky draws to a close

 Caught in a twilight moment in time

I peer through the gossamer veil.

Sun crowns the east with fiery passion

Earth surrounded by Light’s embrace

God breathes into her His tender compassions

carried upon the wings of the dawn.

 

via Photo Challenge: Glow

 

 

The Sounds of Silence

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Have you ever experienced the sounds of silence?

So much pain in the world.  We ask the hard questions and … silence.

The silent wilderness seasons of life are hard, but do I make those times harder…than they are meant to be?

During my most troubled times, I am most often without words.  I lean hard into my husband’s strong, full-body embrace.  And love whispers softly in the silence.

Could the silent answers to life’s hard questions be a means to a greater capacity to lean hard…into Him?  And in the leaning, to learn to listen for the all-encompassing whispers of Love?

The ’70’s child in me remembers the song.

And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming.  And the sign said,

“The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls”

And whispered in the sounds of silence.

Soft whispers; the sounds of silence are all around us…if we would just listen with our eyes.

The sound of soft chimes dancing upon life’s hard winter’s winds.  A full-body love embrace in the wilderness stillness.

And in the silence, I begin to reflect His nature and become still.  In the silence, I gain a knowing, if only a glimpse, that He is God and I am not.

The tide of the prophet’s words ebbs and flows…

Be still and know that I Am God.  

Be still and know that I Am.

Be still and know.

Be still.

Be.

I think maybe I am ready To Be.  Entrusted with the sounds of His silence.

Art of Imperfection — Steve McCurry’s Blog

Steve McCurry pulls back the veil of nations through these “window to the soul” images.  Perfect imperfections.  I am inspired.

Wabi Sabi is a way of seeing the world that is at the heart of Japanese culture. It finds beauty and harmony in what is simple, imperfect, natural, modest, and mysterious. – Mark Reibstein, Wabi Sabi Wabi-sabi suggests that beauty is a dynamic event that occurs between you and something else. Beauty can spontaneously occur at […]

via Art of Imperfection — Steve McCurry’s Blog

We Are Makers

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Maker: “A person or thing that makes in order to bring into existence; an inventor that revels in the creation of new while tinkering with the old.”

We make things.  We are a family of makers.  Woodworkers and music makers; designers and homemakers; stone workers, metalworkers and love makers.

Born into a family of makers.  Married into a family of makers.  Raised daughter and son makers, who joined their lives with makers, and gifted us with four beautiful mini-makers in the making.

It is in the joining of human spirit with the Spirit of The Lord Our Maker, that we become makers.

A family of makers.   We are His delight and I rejoice.

“Then I was beside Him, as a master workman; And I was daily His delight, Rejoicing always before Him, …”.  Proverbs 8:30

 

The Raven

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As for me, time spent in nature means time spent connecting and communicating with our Creator God.  And ravens speak to me.  Not literally, of course (lest you think I’ve lost my mind altogether).  And not in some dark, macabre way, as some would imagine.  But in a coruscating light-filled visionary way, I suppose.

Sauntering through a shop in the historic district of Old Quebec, a glistening black-winged raven catches my eye. Ravens—independent flight takers of wilderness heights. I admire it.  Perhaps even envy it.

“Do you like ravens?”  The young Inuit shop keeper takes me off guard.

Words spill out, bubbling over, in an attempt to put language to thoughts never voiced.  He translates for me, “Oh, it’s your totem”.

Oh, no.  Not sure I should go there.  But the raven speaks, and I make a decision to choose connection without judgment and say, “Why, yes.  It’s my totem”.

And in that sacred moment, together we move, my First Nations brother and I, to a higher spiritual plane.  Choosing connection at his heart level and communication through his heart language, I become a trail sister on life’s journey towards closer communion (common union) with our common Father.

Nature is the common language in which God is revealed.  Nature is not God, but nature testifies to God.  It speaks a common heart language to all mankind.  And I listen … in any way He chooses to speak.

Ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds of the air, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish of the sea inform you. Which of these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.”  Job 12:7-10