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  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7534414/weeping-in-walmart">Weeping in Walmart</a>&nbsp;
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<p>Some days come with their own unexpected beauty.  Beyond the sunrise, beyond that first sip of dark, hot coffee with a treat of sweet cream, beyond the dreaming puppy alongside me on the couch.  And perhaps it is the unexpectedness that is the most sweet.  But on most days, I simply settle for the expected.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>You see, I am not a visionary.  Ideas are crammed into my head like cotton balls, but I mostly leave them there in pursuit of other goals.  Or no goals at all, honestly.  But I love coming alongside visionaries in whatever way I can to support their grit and determination to make the world a better place, one person at a time.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Last week, for some reason, every person we love dearly who is on the front lines of their visionary work sent photos and updates for the fields in which they work.  And that one day alone, my texts were filled with joyful news and even more opportunities to participate in a more just world</p>
<p><br></p>
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<p>Honestly, my heart was so full from joy that even the prospect of the chaos of a necessary mid day trip to Walmart could not dampen my <u>s</u>pirit.  It was one of those days when the entire world seemed to expand around me.  Every person in the store seemed more friendly.  The colors in the aisles seemed brighter.  The very air seemed filled with goodness.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And then I heard it.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Very loudly, coming down the aisle, a young mother was singing “The ants go marching two by two hoorah, hoorah” much to the delight of her toddler son sitting in the seat of the cart.  As she came closer, I could hear her stop between each chorus and ask him, “How many next?”  And right after his answer, she would burst into the next verse.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As she neared me, I made eye contact and told her she had a beautiful voice, and that I too used to sing out loud in stores with my kids.  As I spoke, her son sat transfixed by her, smiling from ear to ear.  She smiled back at him and looked back up at me, pausing in her song, and simply said,</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I would do anything to keep my son happy.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That was it.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I would do anything for my son.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I stood there and started to cry.  Right there in the middle of the aisle, as unembarrassed about my overflowing tears of gratitude as she was about her singing.  This day, this one day, I had been hijacked from my worries and concerns by unexpected beauty.  The beauty of knowing that someone, somewhere, might be working their way towards economic freedom. The beauty of knowing that someone, somewhere, was having a warm breakfast and fellowship.  The beauty of knowing that someone, somewhere was experiencing abundance in a new land.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I wiped my eyes and glanced  at the woman and her son as I shopped the aisle.  She continued to place items in her cart, now singing<em>, the ants go marching six by six</em>, and as she passed, she smiled and added,</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>And I don’t care who hears me.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Friends, today as I write this, my soul bursting with a song of gratitude, I feel exactly the same way.  I cannot solve the problems of the world even with all the cotton balls in my brain.  But I can do tiny things and you can do tiny things that will spill over into our ordinary comings and goings and bring hope and healing and unexpected beauty  into a hurting world.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And that is worth singing about, no matter who hears you.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2024-02-06T06:06:29-07:00" title="February 06, 2024 06:06">02/06/2024</span></p>

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  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7534415/something-about-an-orange">Something about an orange</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

<div class="post">
  <div class="message"><p style="text-align: center;"><em>I believe this is the reason for the endless fascination of golf. </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>The game is a metaphor for the soul's search for its true ground and identity.</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Steven Pressfield</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
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<p>Years ago, I gave up trying to explain to people that Tim’s life long passion with golf is a spiritual discipline.  But it is.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In the confusion and depression of his youth, he would take his clubs out to a field near his home and practice in the setting sun as the breeze rustled the trees.  He explained to me early in our courtship that when the wind came through those trees, he felt the presence of a Holy Soirit, and thus began his lifelong conversations with God on that field and all others to follow.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As you might imagine, since his preferred form of prayer was talking to God on a practice field, finding his “spiritual tribe” was a struggle. But, after coming into contact with the readings of the Shalem Institute,  I thought he would be drawn to the deep, quiet spirit of this group, and when they announced their first West Coast spiritual formation retreat, I signed us both up.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We arrived at an old monastery in California tucked between two deep hillsides on acreage filled with prayer circles, stone buildings and narrow paths into a small gorge. After our first day in meeting and prayer, Tim and I debriefed in our room, and during his reading of one of the selections, he turned to me with quiet joy and announced, “I known who I am…a contemplative…”.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>He had found his tribe.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>On the evening of the second day, we were sent into our small groups to prepare for the next day’s silent retreat.  Our given task during the silence was to watch and listen for what God had to say to us in our journey.  Tim asked in his group how to best prepare, and a seasoned spiritual director said, “Take an orange with you,” because, as she later explained, the smell and the touch of it would keep him grounded.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The next morning, each of us was given several passages of scripture to read to ground ourselves. Tim sat in his group and silently read the first line of the first scripture, which started with the word “Go”.  He could not get past the first word and rose after only a few moments called by the Spirit to be alone and drawn to the path that cut through the gorge to the top of a hill.</p>
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<p>Coming to a small bridge over a creek, he noted a flash of orange in the distance upstream.  Pausing to watch, he saw it meander slowly towards him from ledge to ledge as it traveled down the gurgling stream.  As it got closer, he realized it was an orange floating down towards him. Incredulous, he waited until it  bobbed down the current to the bridge and knelt down to pick it up. In that moment, he realized that the Creator of the universe, with a million other things to watch over,  had set a divine appointment with him.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Holding the orange in his hand as he walked, he placed himself in an attitude of open listening. With all of the baggage being an athlete carries, he had struggled his whole life to believe that he could actually be in communion with a Holy God simply by doing something he loved, something that brought him peace, something that filled his soul.  The question on his heart was the same as always.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>How can something like practicing a simple sport bring me closer to you?</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>He hiked higher, the hillsides crowding in on the trail, and as he pondered his question, a tiny flash of white caught his eye.  There just above his head, so stuck as to almost be invisible, was a golf ball.  He excavated it from the hillside and placed it in his pocket, continuing on.  Suddenly another ball appeared stuck deeply in soft earth.  And then another.  No golf course was within miles. Nothing had been on this trail when he hiked it the day before.  And now, there was abundance.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Hiking on and still holding on to the orange and the two golf balls he had decided to keep, he continued climbing to a small clearing in which stood a single spreading tree and a large boulder split through its middle.  Staring at the cleft in the rock, he realized he had received his answer.  A deep peace flooded him.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Yes, the God who loved him unconditionally could meet him in his quiet passions; He had, after all, created him that way</em>.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Decades have passed since that divine encounter revealed to Tim his identity. He continues his daily practice of long prayer conversations as he tosses his questions and his concerns patiently in Spirit’s direction, and the breezes whisper to him insights and answers.   His relationship with his Creator is a moment by moment, living, breathing friendship.  And I have given up trying to explain to anyone his unusual spiritual discipline because his life speaks for itself.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>He is a man who knows He is deeply loved by God.  He is a man who is at Peace. He is a man who lives in a state of grace.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And when the sun comes up in the morning and shines its light on the oranges now ripening on the tree in our own desert backyard, I am reminded daily that God will use whatever He can to get our attention and speak to us of Love.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Even an orange.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2024-01-30T05:51:06-07:00" title="January 30, 2024 05:51">01/30/2024</span></p>

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</article>  <article class="post blog-article full-item post-full" data-controller="zoogle-video" data-action="message@window-&gt;zoogle-video#handleVimeoPostMessage">
    
<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7534416/the-artist-and-the-keepers-of-the-law">The Artist and The Keepers of the Law</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

<div class="post">
  <div class="message"><p style="text-align: center;"><em>Every Tuesday morning for almost a decade, artist Alvaro Enciso and volunteers based in Tucson have gone into the desert to plant almost 1400 handmade crosses, in bright shades of orange, purple and green, at the sites where immigrants died on their journey north.  Encisco, a 77-year-old Colombian immigrant, calls this project, “Donde Mueren los Sueños,”    Where Dreams Die. </em></p>
<hr>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_dbe2c2281b8d4f6ba5eb57f6a622ef1f~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_867,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><em><strong>The Artist</strong></em> does what he can.  On Fridays the coroner’s report comes out with the cold hard facts of who died in the desert that week.  Sometimes there is a name.  The name matters.  Sometimes  it is simply annotated “unknown”.  But the name still matters..</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">But what matters even more, for the nameless and the known,  are the coordinates of where the remains were found in the desert.  It is where<strong> The Artist</strong> will travel, carrying a lovingly crafted cross to where a fellow human, just passing through, just hungering for something better, has taken his last breath.  Or her last breath.  A weak gasp of a dehydrated man, or woman, or the barely audible breath of a child.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">Hiking through the ocotillo, the palo verde, the occasional saguaro,<em> </em><em><strong>The Artist</strong></em> will come to rest at those coordinates, pausing where perhaps now only the dusty remnants of a rude grave remain.  Perhaps there is no longer even a trace of a life lost, for the scorching winds carry the dust and send it across the desert in the brutal summer.  He will stand each time over the place where these coordinates meet and place the cross in the ground, set  in hastily created concrete, to keep it upright in monsoon rain and wind.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">And then <em><strong>The Artist</strong></em> will call the name out and pray, sending what story he knows to the heavens.  He will honor the name of the departed until his final cry<em>, rest in peace</em>, settles into the desert soil. Until the coyotes carry it through the washes and into the mountains. Until the owl at night repeats the name, and the sun declares its glory both rising and setting. .</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_80ab93a991d54b368f610543fd612a75~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p style="text-align: justify;">The <em><strong>Keepers of the Law </strong></em>do what is required.  They find the searching and the lost and the frightened and the traumatized and place them in a transport vehicle to be processed.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><em>Or not.  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">But before entry to be transported, they must leave their belongings behind them where they were found.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><em>And the desert becomes a graveyard of things.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">Half full water bottles, saved perhaps for essential thirst. An unopened bag of chips held in the hand of a child,  perhaps as a “not yet” until safe arrival to the night’s destination. An apple, whole and fresh, saved perhaps to savor when hope is on the wane and starvation circles like a red-tailed hawk.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">And here and there, in the desert, other remains in this <em>graveyard of things </em>litter the landscape.  A single shoe.  A baby bottle. A well loved stuffed animal. A bright pink child’s backpack. What did <em>it</em> contain?  A love letter from an <em>abuelita</em>? A bracelet from a beloved <em>tia</em> who sang songs of comfort  in a tiny  room at night? </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><em>Quien sabe</em>?  Who knows?   </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">Every memory, every sacred comfort, every holy memento, is discarded by the side of the road  into an unforgiving desert.  Along with compassion. Along with their dreams.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><em>Along with their bones.  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">But <strong>The Keepers of the Law</strong> are “just doing their job” as has been done by conquerors since the dawn of man.  They do it armed and dangerous. They do it carrying  thick protective shields forged in the power of their privilege.  The only truth they know is birthed in soundbites and nurtured by deceit. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>And the work of  </em><em><strong>The Keepers of the Law </strong></em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>writes headlines in irresponsible ink</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>attributed to </em><em><strong>The Law </strong></em><em>and held sacrosanct </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em> “for the betterment and protection of human lives”.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>But  </em><em><strong>not all</strong></em><em> human lives.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;">And <strong>The Artist</strong>  is “just doing his job”.  He is turning ashes into beauty by wrapping himself in remembrance.  He does it softly, armed only with mercy and a wooden cross decorated with remnants from the <em>graveyard of things.</em> The only truth he knows is the truth he experiences, not the shrill voice on the street corner, not the screaming headlines,  but the sound of a fading heartbeat and a struggling breath.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>And the work of </em><em><strong>The Artist </strong></em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>echoes across the night sky </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>where the stars weep</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>and the moon keeps vigil</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>and coyotes carry a funeral prayer</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">while  <strong>The Keepers of the Law</strong> sleep.</p>
<hr>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_57be64efd00e4664803d6c78bb417bb8~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p></div>
</div>


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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2024-01-23T04:17:19-07:00" title="January 23, 2024 04:17">01/23/2024</span></p>

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  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7534417/digging-in-the-dirt">Digging in the dirt</a>&nbsp;
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<p>Like many people in the world, my husband is a sports addict, and his favorite is football (the American one).  He waits with great anticipation for every season, and few things bring him more joy than sitting with chips and dip, a cat on his lap, and perhaps a little crossword activity while the game progresses</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My viewing habits are <em><strong>way</strong></em> more high brow.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I am addicted to Outback Opal Hunters.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>If you have never seen it, this Discovery Channel show follows several “motley crews” of men and women as they struggle in the Outback of Australia to find the elusive opal.  Mining crews come and go, businesses fail and thrive, friendships develop and dissolve, and through it all, the quest never changes.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>At the beginning of my addiction, my husband would wander in the room and, in an uncharacteristic way, remark less than kindly that he couldn’t imagine why <em>anyone</em> would watch <em>that</em> kind of show.  And in my <em>characteristic</em> fashion, I would reply, “the same kind of people who stare at a screen while grown men run a small ball back and forth.” And of course, I had to add, for emphasis,</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>It’s my football.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>For some reason, in the middle of the night last night, I began to wonder why this show.? What is it about their quest that pulls me in week after week, season after season?  Why do I get so invested in these people whose lives are so unlike my own?  Why do I root for their success.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And I think it has something to do with hope.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
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<p>The land on which they struggle to eke out an existence is brutal.  The dust blown, arid and mostly empty landscape is broken up only by occasional torrential rains that make the land a sea of mud.  The heat is brutal, and the toll it takes on their physical bodies and their mining equipment is constant and extensive.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And yet they continue the quest.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Somewhere, out there in the ground, in the stones, a glimmer of hope resides, and it is the pursuit of that glimmer that keeps them moving forward.  Catching sight of that opal peeking through a rough stone causes outbursts of joy that rival the celebration at the birth of a first child. And I find myself celebrating with them, these total strangers who are so determined to never be deterred in their quest.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>But there is something else deeper than the opal quest going on here, I think.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>An elderly miner gets cancer, and his younger team member devotes his career to helping his friend still experience the joy of the journey at whatever level he  can.  Equipment fails or gets stuck, and a community rallies to come help out.  Young people enter the field, and the elders come alongside to mentor and to lead.  Big emotions are displayed, and even bigger grace is given. In the constant struggle for survival, community happens.  And perhaps that is my addiction.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I am watching messy grace at work in people seeking tiny glimpses of hope in a barren landscape.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And I am a sucker for messy grace.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In reality, it is a messy world for all of us right now.  We are bombarded by violence, disease, war, weather, politics…the list is endless.  And then there is the battlefield of our own lives, often wracked by personal struggles and health challenges and splintered family dynamics.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But in these desert times, perhaps we, like the opal miners, can forge ahead, in spite of the conditions, leaning on our community, and focusing on the small glimmers of promise buried in the rubble.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_903b91cd3da04a84af6eb0401a1a4901~mv2.jpg/v1/fit/w_983,h_983,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><em>It’s there.  I promise you.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Waiting hidden in the rough stones…  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Waiting to catch your eye…</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Waiting to bring you Hope</em>.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2024-01-16T05:00:04-07:00" title="January 16, 2024 05:00">01/16/2024</span></p>

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  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7534418/love-in-every-stitch">Love in every stitch</a>&nbsp;
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<p>It was the last Sunday of 2023 in this church of disorganized religion to which I belong, and only one child was present.  Even on a good day, there are only three.  The elders, however, are always there in full force.  We are a sea of white heads walking each other home in these desert lands.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But here’s the thing about these elders.  They are generally not grumpy.  They generally do not grumble about the state of the world today when their needs are not being met.  And, though mostly white, they do not flaunt their privilege or decry its loss.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I am sure that everyone here carries their own story of love and loss.  I am sure everyone is dealing with significant challenges and frustrations.  And I am sure everyone is probably doing their own share of gnashing of teeth over the state of the world today.  But as a whole, they are a joyful bunch.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And I think I know why.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>They are too busy being the hands and feet of Christ to worry about themselves.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It seems that pretty much everyone I have met here is focused on meeting the needs of others around them.  They are hiking into the desert to fill up water stations for migrants, or going to The Wall to provide humanitarian help, or driving to centers in Mexico to teach English.  They display a generosity of spirit, and they laugh together vigorously and often.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Like all aging churches, however, there is a longing to have young families be part of the faith community.  Actually that has been true for every church I have been part of.  And in my experience, attracting young families has often meant finding the best social media campaign or the best curriculum to teach the correct theology or a packaged program that would somehow guarantee that young people would fill the church.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Really, we have none of those things here. But what we do have is a group of folks so focused on love in action that it pours into everything that happens here.  And that love spilled over on the last Sunday of 2023 during a children’s moment.</p>
<p><br></p>
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<p>One little girl in her princess dress came forward to sit by the pastor.  And he let her know, after first acknowledging her beautiful dress to her delight, how loved she was by this congregation.  He let her know what the other two children who couldn’t be here were doing that Sunday, and he shared that he had a gift for her.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We were as spellbound as she was when he opened up a beautiful quilt…not just any quilt, as he explained.  It was created with her favorite colors, and it was patterned with rainbows and unicorns and all of her beloved images.  A soft pink edge ringed the blanket, which he placed over her shoulders, and when she stood, I think applause came forth.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Then our pastor explained about the other quilts created for the two absent children.  Each was also created with favorite colors and images, including one with dinosaurs and a hidden “Woody” from Toy Story.  Each could only have been created by quilters who knew what made each child unique.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_adb9b0fae4de491c95ca6d3733877c33~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Our only precious child that day, after receiving her gift, came and sat on grandma’s lap in our row.  She beamed shyly at the others sitting next to her.  I watched as she pointed out different images on the quilt, wrapped in its warmth.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But really, I think, she was wrapped in love.  Love that takes the time to find out what your favorite colors are.  Love that knows that rainbows and unicorns are your secret best friends.  Love made tangible in a quilt created by artists who sent a message loud and clear.:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>We see you.  We know you.  We treasure you.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Yes, we outnumber the children by about 100 to 1 in this little church in the desert.  But the children who are here get to experience first hand what it is like to be loved deeply just for who they are from a group of grandmas and grandpas who have the gift of giving love lavishly to all.  No program, no curriculum…just love made visible.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>It was that kind of Love that wrapped itself around this child, created stitch by tender stitch.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And it is that kind of Love that is wrapped around each of us by the One who knit us together in the womb and calls us by name.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>A love that knows us in the deepest part of our being,</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>and a Love that will bring us all home.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_df799d5ba8264c3c9be52b397c38bf63~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2024-01-09T04:45:06-07:00" title="January 09, 2024 04:45">01/09/2024</span></p>

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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7534419/the-smell-of-home">The smell of home</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_1c989267d1ee4a99be7f636e7002d52d~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_568,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Before safety was on the front burner of adventure companies, a traveler could bike down Haleakala volcano on Maui right after sunrise.  During our first visit, that sounded like a grand adventure, and so one morning a guide picked us up at 3 am, and off we went into the dark night, bicycles in tow.  After a frosty and foggy ride for the first part of the trek, the sun burst through, and the trek down the mountain gifted us with spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean and surrounding countryside.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>That would be expected.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But what was unexpected  was the symphony of smells.  Pineapple fields assaulted the air with the smell of ripe fruit.  Breezes carried the salt air across the road. And then, rounding a corner, the road turned through a large grove of eucalyptus trees lining each side.  In an instant, the air was soaked with their singular scent, filling up my lungs with a thick, damp, rich smell of my childhood.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I was home.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I thought about that eucalyptus grove today.  Almost two years in the desert now, I am beginning to realize that perhaps it is not the desert landscape itself that engenders a feeling of home for me here.  It is the nostalgic smells that permeate the air.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I walk through the birding trail along Patagonia Lake, and beneath my feet scrub oak leaves litter the ground.  Stepping on them releases the pungent smell of my childhood in Salinas - the scent of San Benancio Canyon, of hikes on the Monterey Peninsula, of the newly developed park my brother tended to in its infancy.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I drive through the foothills of Rio Rico, windows rolled down, and the air is soaked in that leaf smell, and the smell of occasional evergreen, and the smell of dried autumn grasses which catch the wind and are carried across mesquite dotted meadows.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_931f038614a54b3d8baf91dc8ab3a1f9~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>And I walk the frost dusted fairways of a golf course this and every morning, noting the solitary eucalyptus tree, its size indicative of longevity, and I find myself moving to stand at its base, hungry for the smell of my childhood.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Here in this desert, I have recently learned that the smell of home might be even more important for those who are far removed from its comfort. You see, recently when the little town of Sasabe, Sonora in Mexico was caught up in the violence of a cartel war, many of its citizens fled the town, forsaking their homes and all their belongings in order to protect themselves and their families.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>They did not just wake up one day and decide to “make a change”.  They were living their lives in a beautiful sleepy little border town, raising their families, sending their children to school, sharing meals with each other around simple tables. And then gunfire erupted in the streets, and kidnappings started, and the school was closed.  And so, they fled.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Christmas Eve day we help moved a family of seven who had fled that violence into a two bedroom trailer.  Because they came with almost nothing, Tim and I set about thinking about what they might need to set up a new home.  After all, what good are donations of canned food if you don’t have a can opener.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But then I began to wonder about what might feel most like home on this holiest of holidays beyond just basic needs.  So, we got a little tree and some presents, and I wanted to prepare a Christmas meal with all the trimmings, some small gesture of welcome to lighten the load. But I only knew American traditions, so I began to research what meal might be part of a Mexican Christmas celebration.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My research led me to the tradition of having pozole, a celebtratory Mexican stew,  which I had never heard of.  One thing you may not know about me is that I am not a recipe follower…I make things up as I go. But I searched high and low for all of the very specific ingredients, and I followed the recipe meticulously and let the stew simmer for almost a day.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The next day, with the warmed pozole in a crockpot safely plugged in their new kitchen, a group of us moved in their scant belongings and supplies. When we had finished unloading the car, I called mama over to the crockpot. Dad and the children stood with us in the postage sized kitchen, curious what was in the pot.  Mama came to stand next to me to peer in, and I lifted the lid releasing the aroma.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>One whiff, and her face exploded into joy.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Her whole family began laughing, and for one moment, we were all filled with joy with her.  There were no beds, few personal belongings,and not really enough room for such a large family.  But they were together.  They were safe.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And the smell of pozole made this trailer a home.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>When we arrived back at our own home, I opened the refrigerator and realized I had not done any shopping for our own family, and all the stores were closed.  But we had a few frozen Stouffer’s spaghetti dinners, and we cobbled together a meal not fit for a king, but fit for two people who had just experienced where true joy comes from.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The next morning, Christmas came.  In the pre dawn hours we walked our dog on the frosty fairway once again.  I stood beneath the solitary eucalyptus tree on the side of the fairway and stared upward into its enormous canopy.  The smell drifted down.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I was home again.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And I hoped this immigrant family was experiencing the same thing, in a new land, in a new dwelling, but with the aroma of <em>home</em> still in the air to comfort them.</p>
<p><br></p>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2024-01-02T05:03:40-07:00" title="January 02, 2024 05:03">01/02/2024</span></p>

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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7534420/the-other-side-of-the-coin">The other side of the coin…</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

<div class="post">
  <div class="message"><p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_09de1d0e093e426fba7c34bc158c8b2b~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Many of us grew up with the family truism, “Garbage in, garbage out.”  Though it could be used as a way to encourage us to not eat so much junk food, it worked in a multitude of areas.  If a sketchy friend came into our lives, if we read too many comic books, if we watched too many cartoons…garbage in, garbage out.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I had not thought about it much until recently on Facebook,  I read a poster that caused me to reconsider that truism in light of how I look at my past childhood trauma:
</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>While you are healing from generational trauma, </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>do not forget to acknowledge generational strengths.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Let’s face it.  Both my parents were dealing with unhealed trauma and probably PTSD long before there was a label for it.  My dad was a WWII veteran with a flash temper and an addiction to pornography which probably contributed to my abuse. 
</p>
<p><em>Garbage in.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My mom was a WWII survivor from a war torn country who probably had never herself been mothered, as the birth of her sister caused the ruination of her mother’s health and gave mom the task of parenting a sibling at five years of age. Thus, mom, when mom  ended up raising, sort of, four children in a foreign country whose customs she never fully embraced or even understood, she practiced all she knew: benign neglect.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Garbage in.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But here’s the thing.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Garbage in did not result in garbage out.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>More trauma, yes.  Bad decisions, yes.  A complicated life, perhaps. But somehow, the four children of that upbringing all grew up to be fairly successful human beings.  Why?  What were the generational strengths that have gone unspoken under the weight of the trauma?</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_660eccfe9ea64a1494e7b76b2f3830e8~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_407,h_271,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>My dad’s first field trip anytime we moved to a new location was to take his children to get library cards.  He valued reading, and though he had only acquired a high school education, I hardly remember a time when he did not have a book he was finishing.  I heard he wrote poetry, which my mom discarded as unnecessary, so it remains unknown to me.
</p>
<p>He also loved all music, especially classical, and his proudest possession was a console hi-fi which held a prominent place in the living room on which he softly played classical music any time he was home. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My dad loved to cook and taught me how to make homemade bread, always leaving the kitchen a disaster. He was constantly starting new hobbies, like jewelry making, that cluttered our small home with gadgets. And he loved the outdoors and was always taking us out to experience a hike or a swim or a drive in the country, which usually ended up with some small disaster. 
</p>
<p>But what actually endeared him to my mom was the fact that he had a generous heart towards others.  While stationed in Japan, he somehow connected with Father Damien’s work and became involved with helping lepers. In the military he worked hard to bring a library to those who were incarcerated, and he booked musical acts and other entertainment for soldiers to bring a little relief to their lives.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And his laugh was so loud that Jimmy Durante used him as “bait” for his jokes at a concert we once went to.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_8863d0989ed043c681b7c7e64dce7a6c~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_391,h_261,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Mom, on the other hand, did not learn to laugh until her later years.  We often joked that the shortest book in the world was “Four Hundred Years of German Humor.”  But her joy could not be contained when she was adventuring in the woods.  She loved camping and hiking and seeing unexplored places for the first time.  And she hand typed a manuscript of her life of adventures which I still have today.
</p>
<p>Her love of literature and poetry knew no bounds, and she too was an avid reader.  Her near photographic memory allowed her to retain the many of works of Goethe, which even in her nineties she could recite at our early morning coffee.   And her generosity of spirit led her to open an employment agency in downtown Salinas where she tried with every ounce of energy to employ the “unemployable.”  There was no one she ever met that was beneath her attention, and though she often had a cruel comment in private, in public she welcomed the stranger and the outcast with open arms.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As I have been writing this, it has dawned on me that it is past time to shift my focus to those gifts they passed on to me in my young years.  Was my life made more difficult by the unhealed trauma from their lives?  Absolutely.  But I did not <em>leave</em> that trauma unhealed in myself, and some of that process may have been facilitated by the strengths they passed on.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I’ll be honest.  It has been hard to turn that coin over.  I would so much rather cling to an old story that is no longer mine. But in truth, the ashes have turned to beauty.  The past is forgiven.  The plot took a fortuitous twist.
</p>
<p>So today, after working so hard to never be like my parents, I would declare this:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>I am a poet like my dad, and I am a writer like my mom.</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>I am spontaneous like my dad, and I love to adventure like my mom.</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>I love music and literature, just like my father.  Just like my mother.</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>And I am moved to acts of compassion by the example of them both.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And for that, I am grateful.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_725fec5206114125903fd033a2318580~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_630,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p></div>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-12-05T05:46:23-07:00" title="December 05, 2023 05:46">12/05/2023</span></p>

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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7534421/the-perfect-storm">The perfect storm</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

<div class="post">
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<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_34c3bdf6a29543a8911f364f21c3f52c~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Mom was in her nineties when she decided she needed to see Maligne Canyon in Alberta “one last time”.  She had been making those “one last time” requests for at least a decade, but even so, it seemed like a good plan to go adventuring again.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Somehow, I managed to get her on a plane to Calgary, not an easy feat since boarding meant climbing a steep set of stairs into the plane.  But as we began our descent, she looked at me with her eyes sparking and announced, “I can still fly," and I was flooded with optimism.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Which quickly faded.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Arriving at our cabin in Jasper, we were soaked in the smell of early season bug spray, which both of us are allergic to.  We managed our famous “on the bridge” picture, but decided after a night of misery that leaving early and heading towards Calvary would be best.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>At the ranger station entry, my frustration grew as the person ahead of me engaged in a long conversation.  Arriving at the gate, I asked what was going on.  The ranger explained that a rock slide had occurred outside of Banff, but the road was being cleared.  She explained I could turn around or go forward in hopes the road would be cleared. In my frustration, and with a less than healthy mom in the car, I chose to proceed, as our flight in Calgary waited for us the next day.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My anticipation of the beautiful drive through the Canadian Rockies was ruined by a relentless rain that began to fall.  Nearing the half way point, we encountered a newly released rock and mudslide just finishing its journey across the road.  Knowing that more might soon follow and with Calgary in my sights, I did what no one should ever do…. I drove through the fresh slide praying no more was on the way.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I had to get my mom back to Calgary and to safety.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_fbc5327a55494b58b4c5d4fbcddf8556~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_720,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Once arriving in Canmore, finding lodging was hard.  Only one hotel outside of town had a room.  We quickly found out why.  A storm cell was trapped in the valley of these mountains and had been swirling relentlessly for hours, dropping so much water that the swollen waters of the Bow River and its tributaries had not only engulfed the city of Canmore,but also had destroyed the Transcanadian Highway, the only east/west route across Canada.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>We were trapped.  And mom’s medication had run out.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A frantic run to a pharmacy solved the first problem.  Later, when we asked about a good place to eat, the hotel clerk told us that if we left the hotel, we would likely not be able to get back.  The waters were continuing to rise.  The road back to Jasper was closed by rock and mudslides.  A worry filled night awaited.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That next morning, the clerk announced that a back route out to Vancouver was momentarily open.  I went back to the hotel room and as calmly as I could, suggested we hit the road.  Canmore could likely be shut in for weeks.  We had few options.  Mom cheerfully packed her bags, and we left in the pouring rain.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Mom’s macular degeneration limited her vision of the disaster.   Mine was clear.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_385ff3ec28dc40cfbb70ea20b5b4083a~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_944,h_708,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p>
<p>We were the only car on the road.  Driving next to the swollen river, I could see the debris of homes and belongings being carried downstream along with enormous trees.  I knew that the hillsides on either side of the road could tumble at any moment in the continuing deluge.  But I held my panic inside, and I kept the spirit in the car light because mom did not need that worry.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>There is not enough space to tell the tale in its entirety.  Suffice it to say we made it to a Canadian border town where our family awaited and mom, given the preferential front row seat, chatted on and on about her now “greatest adventure” escaping the flood.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I did not share her enthusiasm.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Seated in the back of the van, I looked out the window and began to weep.  My soul was exhausted by the constant prayer, the spontaneous problem solving, the concern for her health and safety.  I honestly wondered at times if we would be trapped somewhere or buried in a slide.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I thought about that journey today as I accompanied a woman who has been helping traumatized citizens of a small border  town who had escaped cartel violence.  None of these townspeople were prepared for the flood of violence that overtook their town.  None of them were prepared for the roar of the gun battles or the kidnappings in their streets.  None of them had been thinking of ripping up their lives and fleeing their homes.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And yet they did</em><u><em>.</em></u></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As we went from place to place helping her deliver supplies to their temporary housing, I couldn’t not help but think about my “privilege”.  When disaster struck my little world, I had the luxury of credit cards and cell phones, and a car.  I was in a foreign country whose language mimicked my own.  I knew the security of my home awaited.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I had every resource at my fingertips.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As I looked into the eyes of these families, I couldn’t not help but think of what this disaster had done to their lives.  No belongings.  No transportation. No money for emergencies.  And now displaced in a land where, except for the helpers, they were soaked in a foreign landscape.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I know how desperate I was, even with all of my resources, to keep my mom safe.  For these families, without resources, their only path to safety was through the mountains… children, elders, infirm, new mothers…families who woke up one day to a shattered world and had only one goal.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Survival.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>When it was my mom whose life was in danger, I would have moved mountains to keep her safe.  I would have forsaken my own life to protect her.  I would have risked anything and everything for even the tiniest glimmer of hope that escape from disaster was a possibility.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And somehow, I imagine you would do the same.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Just like the person fleeing the bombs in Palestine or Ukraine.</p>
<p>Just like the person fleeing on a flimsy boat across a dangerous expanse of sea.</p>
<p>Just like the person illegally crossing the desert to escape cartel violence.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>You would do the same.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7534422/no-time-to-crack-a-joke">No time to crack a joke</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

<div class="post">
  <div class="message"><p>Decades ago, before the term became part of our cultural lexicon, I wrote a spiritual memoir </p>
<p>entitled “Killing the Helicopter Woman,” which told the tale of my own pile of ashes turned to beauty through the relentless pursuit of the Author of Love.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_8fa9a8e0e30240ce9d4e9eafb58d5b31~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_270,h_346,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p>
<p>In the novel I share about the night I picked up the phone ringing on the wall at 2 a.m. only to be informed my father had been killed by a drunk driver.  For the remainder of that night, my brother and I witnessed my stoic mother’s dissembling, watched the family problem solver as she wept and cried out over and over again, “What am I going to do?  What am I going to do?”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I couldn’t solve that problem for her, just a sixteen year old girl at sea.  And neither could my brother.  At what passed for breakfast that next morning, the grief was too overwhelming for me.  It was Sunday.  The funnies were on the table, and the only thing I could think of was to say or do something to try and bring levity to that situation.<em> </em>And in that moment, a new family role emerged.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I would be the one to lighten the mood.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Over the years, like many who experience trauma, I developed a gallows sense of humor, one that often elicited a quick laugh and just as quickly an uncomfortable silence.  Keeping things light and “in perspective” became a way to not deal with my own grief and pain.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>All this, my friends, to say that I really wanted to write about happy trails and sunrises and my fluffy dog and my dear husband and an encounter with a stranger that left me breathless with delight and insight.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>But I can’t.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Not today.  Not after the stories.  Not after the pictures.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>You see, we planned a fundraiser for the children in a small town in Sonora.  This sleepy border town had been lovingly embraced by a community center, Casa de La Esperanza, funded by an organization in Tucson.  A few weeks back, I sat at a table with the women running the center after a journey with our pastor through the desert and along The Wall.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_80503d6c04ae47f684fee508e76e7bfe~mv2.webp/v1/fit/w_900,h_625,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>The building is small and unpretentious, but the adobe walls are festooned with butterflies, a symbol of hope and transformation.  During lunch , I listened to the beautiful, musical sound of the Spanish language, which I do not speak.  But I know hearts.  And the faces of the women doing this tireless work glowed with a brightness that can only be found in people “on mission”.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Later we drove to an adobe building hard to miss due to the brilliant magenta hue and the colorful murals of flowers, children, and books.  A library was to be built there.  I say “was” because the project is on hold for awhile.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>War has broken out in the streets of this little town.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Warring cartel gangs are fighting for control of human trafficking, a “business” which has become more profitable than drug smuggling thanks to the failed immigration policies of the United States and Mexico.  Their battle for power took over the streets of the town.  For ten days, gunfire echoed through its streets, homes were burned, and innocent citizens had no means of escape.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>That gunfire echoes still.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Here’s the thing.  People are dying in Ukraine as hundreds of years of history are wiped out by bombs.  In the Gaza strip, innocent people, most of them young, are being slaughtered and, if not, they are being driven from their homes.  At times, it has become so overwhelming. I have no capacity left for tears, and I turn off the news and stop reading the paper.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>But I cannot escape the tears here, because I am living the headlines.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My email inbox has first person accounts and images of the horrors happening to these townspeople.  I cannot unsee them.  I cannot stop thinking about the young teenage girl I met who did nails after school at a shop across the street from the center.  No one has heard from her.  I fear the worst as stories of kidnapping and violence that strain the human heart emerge.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And I think to myself…I have granddaughters her age.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And I weep.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It seems I cannot stop weeping these days, for the world, for the suffering, for the daily horrors in my own backyard.  I am no fun at social gatherings because this is my only topic of discussion with anyone who asks how I am doing.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I have lost my desire to lighten the mood.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_c9dddcedd6864d6da38b26c8c3d21549~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_780,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p>
<p>I know as I write this,  violence continues to stalk the streets of this little burg.  But I keep going back to the pictures lovingly painted on the adobe walls of Casa de La Esperanza.  I keep going back to the flowers and books painted on the unfinished library walls that were to be a beacon of hope and promise.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I keep going back to the butterflies, symbols of transformation and renewal.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>If my tears, if our tears, could alone stop the inhumanity present in the world around us, it would be over.  But in the midst of those tears, paralysis of grief is not the answer.  Trying to “fix” things by railing against the world is not the answer. Trying to “lighten the load” through distraction is not the answer.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>What is then?</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I don’t know.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But until I figure it out, I will tell the stories as they happen around me.  I will have you picture the old man, nearly crippled, being loving helped away from the violence and through the mountains on a rocky path to safety.  I will have you picture a mother and child fleeing violence in the night with nothing, especially not her child’s birth certificate, and then picture them separated and traumatized anew in the land that was to save them.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But mostly, I will have you picture a young girl who used to do nails after school, maybe the age of your daughter or granddaughter, who had not been heard from.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Her face haunts me before sleep and is there to wake me when I rise.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I pray for her.  I ask God to surround her with angel armies to protect her and the children like her all around the world.  I pray a cloud of butterflies to surround her dreams and give her hope.  And I pray for guidance to help me move beyond thoughts and prayers and into loving action on behalf of those who do not have a voice.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>It seems so little.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>But it is all I have.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_e8e20c0cc1314e7a9db43edd01af5003~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7534423/mistaken-for-grace">Mistaken for Grace</a>&nbsp;
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<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_7c265feee96f4ea3aa186b23801a5719~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>We take to the de Anza Trail these cool, fall mornings before the rise of sun to meander in whatever random pattern suits us.  The sun, it seems, always lingers just below the horizon for more than its allotted time, and we are grateful for the sweatshirts brought out of storage for this autumn season..</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As the sky lightens, a golden hue begins to seep into the landscape, often creating a halo of sweet light through the fur on our golden retriever.  The tall grasses glimmer with dew these mornings touched by higher humidity, and as the shafts of light begin to escape the sun’s embrace, a holy Light settles on the world.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>This is a landscape that is hard to walk away from, though the morning’s “to do list” is ever present, requiring a checking of watches and coordination of plans.  But if time allows, as it did this day, we go back to the path around the lake, just now beginning to come alive with a few souls willing to fight off sleep and cold and come welcome the sun.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As we walked the path to our car this day, we noted a woman coming towards us, many yards away.  We could see her face illuminated by the first true rays of light appearing over the Santa Rita Mountains.  As she neared us her face suddenly exploded into a smile, and she waved vigorously at us and called out a cheerful hello that cut through the dawn.</p>
<p>My husband and I looked at each other. “Is that someone you know?” he asked.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_d814231991e2406e92533a21f27ab485~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>I watched her approaching, still smiling broadly. “No,” I answered. “Perhaps as she gets closer, we will be able to figure out how we know her.”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We watched as her footsteps quickened, and her spirit seemed hungry for community.  Finally, she was within a few yards.  Coming to a stop under the protection of a mesquite tree, the sun was no longer in her eyes.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>Oh, I thought you were Grace.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I have been obsessing about this case of mistaken identity since she spoke those words.  I think about the elements of our meeting.  A light so bright it obscured her vision.  A friendship so dear it engendered joy in its anticipation of an encounter.  A hunger to welcome the source obscured by the light but still known in a deeply personal way.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And then I wondered, what would it be like for you....for me.</em><a href="http://me.to" target="_blank"><em>..</em></a></p>
<p><em>to be suddenly mistaken for Grace.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Because here’s the thing about our encounter with the woman on the trail. She could not see our faces, obscured as they were by the sun’s rays.  But the anticipation of what love and acceptance she thought waited on the other side propelled her forward towards that Light, filled with joy.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_53d5a9a0384e4aa385dc5babf17a022a~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>In our current culture, it seems, people are more concerned with being the <em><strong>source</strong></em> of the light themselves, or at least have the light focused on their own faces, their own accomplishments, their own stories. Hungry for attention, the mission then becomes to have their own identity take center stage.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>But no matter the cultural pressure, it cannot be our mission in this life to stand so that the light falls only on us.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>No. <a href="http://be.It" target="_blank"> </a>It is our mission to place ourselves so that the Light shines into the faces and lives of someone else.<em>  </em>It is our mission to fill the air with the sound of someone else’s voice telling the story only they can tell.  It is our mission to have someone else walk away from every encounter feeling seen and heard and accepted to the core of their being.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And this mission requires a complete surrender of our own precious identity.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We have to hunger to be the one in the cheering, faceless crowd, always noticing and encouraging someone else. We have to desire not to be on the marquee, but rather only to be in the small credits at the <em>end</em> of the movie of someone’s else’s life<em>. </em>We have to get comfortable with standing in the shadows of the wings and not on center stage, and let the spotlight shine on someone else’s face.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Then, and only then, will we be ever mistaken for Grace.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_b9309a556d6b4b4c9521a9e2d837a32b~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-11-14T04:45:03-07:00" title="November 14, 2023 04:45">11/14/2023</span></p>

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