Part of the grieving journey is the dispersal of the worldly goods. Both of Sean’s parents passed away within this past year and, although they each had worked hard to sell and distribute much of what they owned before they left their earthly shells, our filled-to-the-gills garage reminded us of how difficult acquisition is to undo. At last Saturday’s garage sale we spent the day making ridiculous bargains, even begging people to take things for free and still, at the end of the sale,  a couple of car-fulls remained to bring to Good Will.

After our “radical stuff-ectomy” in 2007, we made a commitment to less is more. The garage sale reminded us why that is so important…now, more than ever.

In 1968 i was eleven and beginning 6th grade, which was “Junior High” and a very big deal. A few “oddballs” that came from the various elementary schools in town were collected together into a “awkward” learning cohort…i think maybe 5 of us? It’s been a while and I am past my Jubilee 50th birthday year, which of course not only freed me from debt, but also from much of my memory.

Math was fun since three of us considered it one of the best games in the universe. Today they employ empowering terms like “Mathlete,” to describe a child with these inclinations…back then we were simply known as nerds…which did not increase our popularity, not that any of us noticed.

Reading Class, on the other hand, was just plain weird science. I mean, i loved to read: don’t get me wrong! In fact, what i loved most about reading was the way it was no respecter of time. There you were one minute barely aware of that opening sentence and the next moment – which was often many hours later- you were changed. Like you had been the reluctant recipient of alien experimentation, dropped back into your comfy chair several hours later with your eyebrows singed off. I LOVED that feeling. And this class – meant to accelerate our reading rate while simultaneously advancing our comprehension to that of a twelfth grader (which, by the way, the mathematician in me deduced to be in direct correlation to a reduction in the pleasure derived from the reading)- stunk.

So… fast forwarding 40 plus years to the weekend of Dorothy’s Memorial…my friend, Elesa, queried me once again on my disregard for fiction. I mumbled something like, “Ya-da-ya-da, school books, non-fiction, wrestling with theological blah-blah…i guess i’m just not drawn to fiction…i’ve tried…i get bored…” But, you know what, Elesa? I think that, at the root, back in sixth grade I was in such a hurry to please my teachers that i lost my way to the real wow of wonderment.

So, I’m ready to take a chance again. I’ve downloaded Gilead. And I’m giving myself permission to get lost in space, eyebrows be damned.

Hold Fast to Your Dreams

Sometimes it’s just the dead wood that needs to go. We’ve been doing a lot of that in our yard. But sometimes it’s the thriving, but out-of-control trees and shrubs that are in need of the axe. Blocking sunlight for other lovely plants, blocking the amazing view for we who drink in the loveliness of mountain and bay to relieve our souls of the dust of the day.

What about me hides in the shadow of yesterday, reluctant to expose myself to the thrilling vista of new adventures? Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me a sinner…and help me wield the axe of brave, new adventures with wisdom.

The last time I built a garden was back in 2006. We moved Dorothy into our home library (yes, our house back in Maryland had a library like in the game Clue) since her bedroom suite had been previously on the second floor and her stroke removed any possibility of traversing stairs.

The library had a lovely bay window which looked out…well, on the weedy-no-one-cares-because-no-one-sees-it side of the house. Dorothy, who spent much of her time then in bed, needed beauty to embolden her to begin again. The kind of beauty only nature could provide.

I got to work, clearing the overgrowth, sketching out and then planting what came to be known as Dorothy’s Healing Garden. Eight years later, I garden again…this time it is for my own healing.

The beginning of this month we celebrated the life of Dorothy Boisen with a Memorial service at the church and a Committal Cruise out in Chuckanut Bay. My wonderful mother-in-law, who  defined many of my life choices for the past eight years (along with my late father-in-law, Elliott Boisen) has moved on from this fragile and often unforgiving world, opening a strange, new world of possibilities for we who remain.

Sean reminded me that I had stopped blogging in earnest when mom had her first major stroke back in 2005 because I didn’t want her to read about my struggles as her caregiver.

“So, will you start blogging again?”

His question made me wonder, “Do I have anything worth saying?” Not yet. Not really.

But, this simple WordPress entry is a way of making a “public” commitment to explore some of the questions surrounding The Years of my Dorothy.

“Christian Activism…must be preceded by theological reflection in order to provide what R.H.Tawney described as a ‘clear apprehension of the deficiency of what is and the character of what ought to be.’” Stephen Charles Mott, A Christian Perspective on Political Thought. [italics my own]

To allow the character of Christ to consume/fill/overtake our present deficiencies…what ought to be.

A paper written for Medieval Church History (forgot to post it back then!): Read the rest of this entry »

A paper written for a Foundations of Leadership course: Read the rest of this entry »

A paper written for an American Church History course: Read the rest of this entry »