prayer

Quotidian Quirks (a.k.a. “Overdue Randomness for Laura”)

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 7 Comments

Randomness does not even sound like a real word to me, but apparently it is.  But if it wasn’t, rather than begrudgingly force myself to accept this fact (like I’m attempting to do with the use of anyways – and by the way, I caution you on checking out Urban Dictionary‘s definition on this; they’re more vulgar than I am…) I would accept it .  Woo-hoo!  I DO accept it and I’m using it.  Rah! Rah!  Skip-boom-bah!  This, my friends, is the result of spending seven hours a day with 28 first graders, four hours a night revisiting algebra and Latin with your middle-school children and six hours this morning doing my PHS-1 on-line college science course (perhaps a story for another time of exuberant, delirious randomness.)

Seems like this might be a good time to insert a sentimental photo and change the subject.   This is a photo (courtesy Aunt Sue) of what is left of the swing on my grandparents’ farm.  For the last several months my mother has given me regular updates on the selling of the farm, a transaction which is the result of my grandmother and grandfather passing.  They both lived well into their 90’s – 95 and 98 – and their farm is in itself a world of analogies and metaphors for those of us blessed to spend time there.  My memories of the place are stacked in a happy recess in what’s left of my mind, like the fragrant golden bales in the gigantic tin-roofed hay shed just beyond the milk barn, half-way to the creek.  There are no swings on the playground at the school where I now work.  This is a sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad, sad commentary on contemporary society. There’s nothing like hours of exhilarating swinging to alleviate all your childhood cares.  I’m pretty sure it would work on my adult cares, but they paved paradise and didn’t put up a dadgummed swing, so I must blog.  Lucky you.  (That was a joke.)

Prayer is not a joke to me, and here is an excerpt from my favorite prayer diary: “Make me wise to see all things today under the form of eternity, and make me brave to face all the changes in my life which such a vision may entail: through the grace of Christ my Saviour. Amen.” (A Diary of Private Prayer by John Baillie).   Being mindful of the big picture, embracing change – the ever-present adversaries warring away in my mind and soul.

But speaking of another type of “big picture,” my hubby and I are finally going out for long overdue Date Night; i.e., dinner and a movie.  Thankfully this is one of the most effective adult versions of childhood swinging.

Woo-hoo!

Pump those legs.

Feel the breeze.

The sun is kissing me all over my face.

 

Grinding out a prayer

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 7 Comments

An author whose blog I enjoy, recently asked readers to identify their 2011 “theme songs.”  Thanks to my friend, Jeanny, I knew exactly what I would choose.  After church last Sunday, Jeanny, who sings with the lilting, pulsating voice of an angel, suggested that I listen to Van Morrison’s version of  Be Thou My Vision.  Be Thou My Vision has long been a favorite hymn of mine, but it took hearing Morrison grind out the ancient Irish poem, to adopt it as my theme for 2011.  This is not Morrison’s  young and cheery Brown- Eyed Girl voice.  It is a voice weathered and rough-hewn like the stone fences that cascade down the green hills in the meadows of his native Ireland.  It is a chiseled plea.

“Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart; naught be all else to me save that thou art – thou my best thought by day or by night, waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.”

Jeanny didn’t say why she liked this version.  She is a quietly exuberant woman, undergoing the Scupltor’s  chisel herself, as she and her husband struggle to maintain their footing on the rocky path of raising an autistic child.  Though her burdens are immense she radiates the light of the One whose presence she seeks.

“Be thou my battleshield, sword for my fight; be thou my dignity, thou my delight, thou my soul’s shelter, thou my high tow’r; raise thou me heav’nward, O Pow’r of my pow’r.”

Jeanny’s son is in elementary school, but four of my kids have or will soon have “flown the coop” – a much better euphemism for the wing-growing process than the gentle, benign “leaving the nest.”  This period of pushing and pulling, pursed lips and prayer poses an assault on my ability to remain dignified.  Addictions, joblessness, car wrecks and college choices. Often I feel like the strains voiced by Morrison’s contemporary, Mick Jagger, “If I don’t get some shelter, oh yeah, I’m gonna fade away.”  The delights (scholarships, rehab successes, good grades and growth in faith)  though thoroughly penetrating when realized, aren’t fully satisfying apart from the power of my Power.

“High King of heaven, my victory won, may I reach heaven’s joys, O bright heav’n’s Sun!  Heart of my own heart, whatever befall, still be my vision, O Ruler of all.”

I think I’m going to stick with this chiseled plea for 2012, too.