sacramental possibilities

Some things never change…

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 11 Comments

Some things never change, but then again, sometimes (almost) everything changes. Since my last post over 16 months ago, my life has been touched by nearly every major life-impacting event known to womankind. I thought about listing here all these tragedies, conundrums, and milestones, tempted by the shock value of their individual and accumulated status. But ultimately, that’s not really my style. Or is it? Maybe it should be. Maybe the newly transparent, vibrantly vulnerable woman that is emerging from the wreckage needs to boldly acknowledge my journey. Maybe I need to acknowledge my membership in the various tribes of which I now belong.

No. I just spent half an hour chronicling that tribes list here. At Number 17, it stopped feeling right. So I deleted all of them. But that doesn’t change my desire to put my stories out there – out HERE on my blog – not just in a shocking list, but in meaningful, redeeming ways. Because, despite all that is new, altered, damaged or rejuvenated in my life, my soul is still intact, with many of the same longings, loves and aspirations and convictions. It is truly a near miraculous reality and an evidence of grace beyond my mortal comprehension.

I’m still me, the “woman that never sleeps,” the lover of the quotidian life and the stories that reveal its sacred beauty. I hope you’ll stop by occasionally and join me in my marveling.

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Sons of Nuns

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 6 Comments

“God bless you, Sister, may all your sons be archbishops.”

Those words, according to The Quotidian Mysteries author, Kathleen Norris, came from the mouth of the poet Dylan Thomas as he lay on his deathbed.  Nuns with sons?  Was this a dying poet’s last stab at cynicism or humor?  Or was it, as Norris proffers, the aesthetic sensibility being “attuned to the sacramental possibility in all things?”

This supposition came to mind this morning on our morning school commute.  For weeks now the kids and I have driven past a mocha colored double-wide trailer home planted amid an estate of dirt.  There have been signs – tumbleweed removal, an unwound garden hose – that something is astir here.  Yet it has remained a largely barren plot, devoid of possibilities to me.  Until today.  Today I notice on the property nearly invisible trees, staked and bound by twine, in slender black buckets.  I think of the optimistic Dylan and wonder, “Trees?  With long, leaf-laden branches freely stretching up to tickle a smile from the austere azure?”

On this thought alone my heart could suckle the milk of possibility for the rest of the day.  But there is more.  Not far down the road a commercial pick-up truck pulls out from another neighborhood.  Almost immediately I recognize it as a testimony of the diversity found here on the fringes of the West Valley, where the White Tank Mountains keep the next haboob from blowing us all into East L.A.  The truck has emerged from a neighborhood of mission-style homes nestled on resort-like estates.  The tall palms here are not bound or staked.  They nod like Arabian sheikhs appraising the water-fetching maidens at the local oasis.

The painted lettering on the truck’s rear window advertises the worker’s trade – Steve’s Wood Creations.  Following and reading, I learn that  Steve specializes in custom furniture and commissioned art.  I wonder to myself how people these days afford “custom furniture and commissioned art.” The soft spot in my heart for craftsmen and artists pulses with thankfulness for Steve’s good fortune.  But there is something else about this mystery craftsman, something that earns my admiration and adds to my hope quota.  According to the window, he also offers woodworking classes.   I wonder who takes his classes.

Maybe the people from the Dirt Estate.