Sabbath Thoughts

When I was 13 I started spending the summer with my aunt and uncle who were Seventh Day Adventists, and who practiced a strict Sabbath (or at least it felt strict to my teenage self). They didn’t go out to eat or spend money on Sabbath. They didn’t watch TV or go to the movies or play video games or computer games on Sabbath. They didn’t work on Sabbath.

At first this felt like a limitation, but even as a young girl I slowly started to feel the sweetness in it. We spent a lot of Saturdays laying on the living room floor laughing as my cousin entertained us. We snuggled on the couch together and listened to Adventures in Odyssey tapes. My aunt and I went for long walks and talked. My sister-cousin and I giggled and shared secrets. They were slow, long, lingering days. And they were sweet.

After my cousin died this summer I kept thinking about those lingering summer Sabbaths. I couldn’t shake them. I felt so grateful for those days, for those moments, for those memories.

Ever since then I’ve been trying on limitations for Sabbath. I say trying on because it has been like a woman trying to decide what to wear for a date. I try on a limitation and then discard it and try on another. There’s been lots of grace and flexibility and gentleness, but slowly I’m finding my way. I’m trying to pursue a Sabbath that feels like rest, celebration, and freedom, for us in this season. I’m seeking a day that feels set apart and different from other days. So I’ve been sitting with a few questions…

What things do I want to rest from, set aside, not HAVE to do?

What things do I want to focus on, lean into, and celebrate? 

What activities feel like freedom and rest to me and what activities feel like bondage?

I’m still figuring it out. Truthfully, there are plenty of things in my life as a caregiver that feel like bondage that I can’t set aside, like the syringes of food I need to give my daughter every 15 minutes. But I’m finding that there are plenty of things that I can set aside, that I can limit. For example, I may not be able to stop giving Sage food every 15 minutes, but I can make her blended food ahead of time so I don’t have to do it on Saturday. So on Friday I make enough food to last her from Friday night to Sunday morning.

Slowly I’m finding some freedom in a few limits I’ve gently adopted. 

I don’t clean or do laundry on Sabbath. As any of my friends will tell you, I’m not a natural housewife. My house isn’t often clean and my laundry is rarely done. I hate these tasks, they are drudgery to me and they spread into each and every day of my week, but not Saturdays. Saturdays I’m choosing something different. This has lead to me making sure that all the laundry is done and the house is picked up before Friday night, which means we sit down to dinner Friday in a clean space, a space that feels light, and free, and clear. For at least this one night a week my house is clean. And I can enter into my decision to not clean or do laundry on Saturday with freedom. 

Now this doesn’t mean I stubbornly refuse to do ANY dishes on Saturday. There have been Saturdays I have washed dishes while talking to my husband and hanging out together, but I did them because I wanted to do them, because it was a shared activity rather than a chore or a task on my to-do list. I don’t require myself to do them and if the dishes stay in the sink all day on Saturday I let that happen.

Another “rule” we’ve started has been attempting to make Friday night dinners something special. We sit down to dinner together at the table most nights, but on Fridays we also light a candle, pull out a jar of questions and ask them to one another, and linger a little longer. Last week we read the Friday Compline from the Celtic Book of Daily Prayer together before starting dinner. We don’t eat leftovers on Fridays and I do what I can to make this a special meal and time together. 

We also actively pursue quality time on Saturdays. On Saturday mornings my husband and I sit and drink coffee and talk together. If he invites me to do a cross word puzzle with him I say yes, rather than my norm of saying no and rushing off to my to-do list, or to something else I enjoy more. I don’t check social media at all on Saturdays. Sometime on Saturday we play a game together as a family and often we pick out a movie to watch all together rather than being on our own devises. 

We haven’t limited electronics on Sabbath, apart from my personal choice to be off social media, but I have organically tried to encourage other activities. We have also tried to engage in electronics more as a family activity on this day rather than an individual activity. So if my son really wants to play minecraft, rather than letting him and going to do my own thing, or telling him he can’t and has to do what I want to do, I ask if I can play with him and we play together.

We intentionally pursue togetherness.

Cooking is another one of those daily tasks that looses it’s joy and becomes a chore for me, so on Saturdays I’ve decided not to cook. I make food for Saturday on Friday. Maybe this means prepping a meal that I can just dump in the crockpot in the morning. Maybe it’s making something for Friday’s dinner that will give us enough leftovers to eat for Saturday. Maybe it means my kids have cereal or toast or something they can get themselves. Maybe it means my husband cooks. After Friday nights nice dinner, I don’t cook. 

I won’t spend money or talk about spending money on Sabbath. This means that on Saturdays my son can’t ask me for a toy or app that he wants over and over and over again. This rule is especially soft and bendable when others are in town or when we are out of town, but it’s a helpful way for me to not allow a common stress trigger to influence my thoughts or behavior for a day. 

Both my husband and I don’t do any work on this day. I don’t prepare for yoga classes, or work on writing, or check email, or work on various projects or ideas I may have. We don’t cross things off our to-do list on this one day. This day is for rest and being together, not for furthering our goals. 

These rules have been gentle, there’s space for breaking them. There have been Sabbaths in the past few months that don’t look at all like this, but slowly we are settling into this rhythm, and Saturdays are starting to become a day that feels different and set apart.

We are still very much just figuring this out. Some of these things are decisions and limitations I’m not sure about yet. It may shift and change, but right now these things are working for us in this season. 

How about you? Have you ever implemented an intentional day of rest? What did/does that look like for you?

Grace and peace,

If you like this post please consider buying me a cup of tea (Suggested: $3 a cup)

I’m With You, All of You

I am full of arguments against writing this post.

The first is the loudest voice, it tells me that it is more loving to stay silent, or if I can’t stay silent then to stay vague. Don’t offend anyone. Don’t cause conflict. Don’t rock the boat. It’s wiser to just listen. And while this voice speaks some truth, it also lies. I have spent a lot of my life listening to the voices that tell me to get smaller and quieter and I don’t want to follow their lead anymore.

The way of love also asks us to listen, but it asks more of us than just getting quiet. It asks that we show up to the table, that we listen when others speak, but that we also speak up ourselves. It asks that we show up with all of ourselves and our hearts and we let others show up with all of their selves and their hearts too. It asks that we love and value others enough to hear them, really truly hear them, but also that we know ourselves to be loved and valuable enough to not tolerate anyone who doesn’t respect, validate, and listen to our voice as well.

Without good people speaking out, disregarding their own security and acceptance, ignoring the apparent wisdom of silence for the courage of love, we would never have change of any kind.

And I think the way of love is the way of change, because love wants growth. Love is not passively condoning an action that hurts someone because saying something might hurt someone’s feelings. Love is speaking up and calling forth something higher, something better, some growth that would lead more and more towards wholeness, health, well being, and true connection.

The voice that tells me to stay silent, even if the reason is that “it’s more loving”, is not a loving voice. It is the voice of shame. Period. And I will not live under shame’s tyranny. I want to live under love’s dominion.

Having gotten over one hurdle towards writing another emerges.

“Other’s are already saying it better.”

I have felt proud of my Instagram feed this week. I am sure there are those out there who are being hurtful, hateful, and spiteful, but I have heard little of that. What I have heard and seen from so many people, people who are disappointed and hurt, is grace. I have seen love in action from so many people as they engage socially in sharing their thoughts, their feelings, there ideas, their fear, and their disappointment. I have seen people inviting those very different from them to the conversation both online and face-to-face. I have read words that are more thoughtful, beautiful, and powerful than anything I have read in the modern era in a long while.

Others are saying it better.

And then today I happen to be reading Madeleine L’Engle’s A Circle of Quiet in which she writes:

“If I thought I had to say it better than anybody else, I’d never start. Better or worse is immaterial. The thing is that it has to be said; by me; ontologically. We each have to say it, to say it our own way. Not of our own will, but as it comes out through us. Good or bad, great or little: that isn’t what human creation is about.”

And like a flash of lighting I know I have to write this post. There is something I have to say. Not because I can say it better, or in some new way, but because it has to be said by me. There is something in me, which must come out. Not because of anyone else, but because of me. Because in the process of speaking, writing, sharing, creating, there is some growth that happens in the one who speaks, writes, shares and creates. There are words that need to come out of me because in doing so they can change me. And I need that. Always. No matter how many others are also doing that work and seem to be doing it better.

So, I sat down to write and a new fear rose, a new argument made it’s case. What if someone takes my words the wrong way? What if someone feels personally hurt or angered or harmed by my words? That can’t be the way of love, can it?

I think of a post I read this morning in which a woman I follow wrote beautifully on the cyclical nature of change and progress, the discomfort of it, the way the pendulum swings back and forth. The words were thoughtful, and gentle, and reading it felt like a call towards peace. But then I scrolled down and a rather long comment caught my eye. The person writing the comment was clearly upset, angry, and feeling their choice was being attacked by something that I could see clearly didn’t aim at attacking.

What if someone misunderstands? What if they take my feelings as a personal attack?

And I’m reminded of a truth that seems to be everywhere in my life right now. It is both simple and one of the most complex ideas I have ever grappled with:

I am not responsible for other people’s feelings. Just as someone else is not responsible for mine.

When I try to make someone responsible for my feelings I am placing shame and blame somewhere it can’t be placed.

Where this get’s complicated is that I do have a responsibility to my words and actions. I want to live in love, speak in love, act in love. I want to be aware and intentional. I don’t want to harm another, even in their feelings. And if I degrade, devalue, humiliate, abuse, dehumanize, brutalize, wrongfully accuse, or shame someone either in my words or my actions I am absolutely responsible for that. If I intentionally (or unintentionally) inflict harm on another with my words (or actions) I am responsible for that.

But, I cannot be responsible for how someone takes something I say in love, for how they interpret my words or how it makes them feel. Feelings are a rather tricky thing, and they come not just from what I say but from how what I say triggers a myriad of past experiences and stories in someone else. I can’t control that reaction. I am not responsible for another person’s feelings. I am responsible for my own actions, my own words, my own responses, that’s it.

So, here’s my promise to you: I will speak carefully.

I will chose my words with intention and caution. I will not use shame, I will not devalue, or degrade.

Will you read this post with grace? Will you read it with softness and understanding, not taking it as a personal attack, but as exactly what it is, my own processing, the words that must be said by me?

So, here it is…

I felt shocked, saddened, angry and discouraged that Donald Trump won the presidency. I could even go so far as to say I felt heartbroken by it. I walked around in a depressed daze for much of this week.

It wasn’t because a Republican won. I don’t often feel that Republicans value the things I value, but I have nothing against Republicans and I feel like there are plenty of them who would do a fine job running the country even though I may not agree with them.

It wasn’t that Hillary lost, I voted for her and I feel good about that vote, but I don’t love her. I didn’t want her to win the Democratic ticket. She feels like a typical politician.

The depression didn’t come from those things, it came from who won and how they won.

It was because someone won who is endorsed by the KKK and other white supremacy groups (yes, those groups shockingly still exist), who continually makes racist comments, who advocates for war crimes, who according to politifact tells the truth only 4% of the time, and has bragged about sexually predatory behavior.

It felt to me like a victory for hatred, for racism, for bigotry, for sexism, for disrespect, for inequality, for fear.

It felt to me like love and respect and civilized human decency lost. And that feels rather discouraging (to say it lightly).

I know a lot of wonderful, kind, loving thoughtful people who voted for Trump. I do NOT think they are about everything he seems to be about.

I am personally struggling to understand how, not being about those things, a person could vote for someone who is so blatantly about those things. But, I know this was a complicated race. I know people value different things than I do. I know there’s a lot that went into every persons decision, but knowing that doesn’t make me any less sad. I’m sad.

I’m sad for our country. I’m sad for the world, because this swing towards extremism, towards fundamentalism, towards exclusivism, and ethnocentrism, is not just happening in America it’s happening in a lot of places right now.

And I personally chose not to value those things.

The truth is those things are in me, as I wake up to myself I can see all of it.

In 1942 Etty Hillesum, a Jewish women in Amsterdam, wrote this in her journal as Nazis were rounding people up in the streets:

“I try to look things straight in the face, even the worst of crimes…I feel like a small battlefield in which the problems of our time are being fought out. All one can hope to do is to keep oneself humbly available, to allow oneself to be a battlefield.”

I don’t want to admit it, to see it, and especially not to write it, but the hatred I see in others is mirrored in me, the fear I see in others is mirrored in me. I am just as capable of bigotry and racism and sexism and exclusivity as even Donald Trump. I am just as capable of being close-minded and judgmental as the next person. I am not naive enough to say I am innocent; I am not. My world, my very soul, is subtly and not-so-subtly colored by all those things. Just like Etty I am a “small battlefield in which the problems of our time are being fought out.” But I will fight them out. I will not give in to my baser self. And I think I had hoped that we would not elect a candidate who time and time again seems to give into that baser nature and not even be in the battlefield.

So, what I need to write for me, right now, ontologically – in order to be – is a new commitment, a sort of vote of my own.

I need to say I’m with women, and girls, who are afraid to walk down the street alone at night, who are paid less than their male counterparts, who are kept out of certain jobs and certain industries, who are still in so many settings treated as objects for someone else’s pleasure either blatantly or subtly. I’m with you.

I’m with those who’s skin is darker and history more tumultuous than mine, who are between two and four times more likely to be stopped by police and 3 times more likely to be shot unarmed, who still in this day and age are segregated and looked down on and treated as lesser by so many, who enter their society being seen as a threat before they’ve even done anything. I’m sorry. And I’m with you.

I need to say I’m with the immigrant, those who are searching for home, for place, for safety; whether you come here legally or illegally because I know sometimes coming legally is just too hard and too expensive and you would do anything to have a future and give your children a future even if it means breaking the law. I get it. I would feel that too. I’m with you.

I’m with the disabled, those who walk differently and talk differently and those who don’t walk or talk at all, those who’s brains work differently than mine, who see the world with entirely different eyes, who we label as “disabled” because often we don’t know any better, but who just like me were made in the image of God and have so much to teach me about life and love and what it really means to be healthy and whole. We need you in our societies, in our churches, in our families. I’m with you. I’m with my daughter.

I’m with the sick who don’t know how they will afford the treatments they need, who are concerned that they will be denied insurance coverage because of pre-existing conditions, who are held responsible for things they should never be held responsible for, who in any other industrialized civilized country would be cared for, because basic healthcare is a human right, at least equal to that of education, that any ruling government should be obligated to provide, but here we haven’t. I’m with you. I understand your stress and your fear.

I’m with all those who have been treated as less than, because of their race, nationality, religion, or sexual orientation. People matter. You matter. You have value. Even if others don’t treat you as valuable. Even if our highest office of government, the president himself, doesn’t treat you with value.


I need to say I’m with those of you who voted for Trump. Not because I agree with you, but because you have value too, just as much as me, or anyone else. You are entitled to your choice, to your ideas, to your vote. Just like I am.

I want to try to understand you…

To those of you who voted for him because you’re hurting, you feel like you’ve been forgotten, you feel like you aren’t getting what you’re entitled to, you want a better future for yourself and your children and you think he can give you that, I hear you. I want a better future for you and your children too, for all of us and our children.

To those of you who voted for him because the most important issue to you is abortion, you are outraged that so many innocents are being murdered every year, I hear you. I’m with you in wishing abortions would stop. It’s a complicated issue, but I’m saddened by that loss of life, by all that potential destroyed. I’m with you.

To those of you who voted for him because you believe in the Republican party, you might notice that it’s not the party it was, you might not like that, but you still believe in the things the Republican party stands for and you could never vote otherwise, I respect your loyalty. I was raised Republican, there are things they say that they are about that I could get behind if I actually saw them being about those things. I hear you. I hope for a Republican party that is more than just a hate group, that is really about some of the things they say they are about, and I know that will only happen by kind passionate people like you staying in the party and working to raise the level of discourse and the quality of candidate. I’m for that.

To those of you who voted for him because you wanted change, you liked how he said whatever came into his mind and wasn’t polished and rehearsed, you liked that he wasn’t a politician, and even that he sometimes messed up and said the wrong thing, you value authenticity and people being who they are even in the spot light, I get that. I like that too. We desperately do need change, we desperately do need people in office who are authentic and not two-faced, but I also believe in the value of words and that words matter and what we say matters and we should be careful in how we use our language, using our words to built up rather than abuse or harm.

To those of you who voted for him because your parents, or friends, or maybe your pastor and the other people around you told you it was the right thing to do, even the “Christian” thing to do, and you believed them, because your relationships are built on trust and you trust them, I understand that. I voted that way for a time. It’s nice and comforting to see the world in black and white and so much harder to try to start wading through the grey. I get that. I feel that. I’m with you.

To those of you who voted for Trump because you really couldn’t tolerate seeing Hillary in the white house, you have a visceral, extremely negative reaction to the Clintons, you think they are manipulative, lying, slimy, two-faced, disingenuous, and even evil, I hear you. That feeling that you get in your gut when you think about the Clintons, that’s the feeling I have when I think about Trump. I get you. I understand you. The Clintons are far from clean, far from honest or forthcoming. And you value those things. I understand that. I’m with you.

And to those of you who voted for Trump for reasons I haven’t thought of, reasons perhaps beyond my understanding, maybe you really are scared about immigrants taking your jobs, maybe you really do like the few policies he sort of put forth, wherever you are coming from, whatever reason you had for voting for him, I’m with you.

I’m with you.
Not because I agree.
But because I value you.
I value your voice and your right to chose.
I value democracy.

Most of all, I’m with you because it’s the only way we can move forward.

But the second you, or our president-elect, start to devalue another human being, whatever their race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or religion I will call you on it. I will fight you on it. I will not stand behind that.

I am willing to enter into an honest, respectful, discourse about differing political ideologies and plans, with love, but I am finally ok fighting when you say or do something that devalues another human being. Loving, respectful, discourse is so deeply needed and important, but if all I do when you degrade another human being is shrug my shoulders and say you are entitled to your beliefs I am no longer walking in the way of love. I am then part of the problem.

And I do not want to be part of the problem anymore, even in the darkest most subtle and unconscious places of my heart. I will let my heart, my life, be the battlefield. I suspect I will fail at times, but I will try and I will keep fighting.

I do not want to stand silently or idly by any longer.

I am with America.
I believe in the experiment that is America.

I am also for our shared growth, our shared progress, our shared value. Each and every one of us.

Grace and peace,

If you like this post please consider buying me a cup of tea (Suggested: $3 a cup)

Self-Rejection and Becoming Beloved

Ok, friends lets get real honest. I’m fighting today, fighting to believe that I am loved. There are lots of things that can trigger insecurity for me, but today I’m sitting with one particular trigger, and it’s stirring up lots of self-doubt and self-rejection.

Henri Nouwen calls self-rejection “the greatest trap in our life”. And then goes on to write,

I am constantly surprised at how quickly I give in to this temptation. As soon as someone accused me or criticizes me, as soon as I am rejected, left alone, or abandoned, I find myself thinking: “Well, that proves once again that I am a nobody.” Instead of taking a critical look at the circumstances or trying to understand my own and others’ limitations, I tend to blame myself – not just for what I did, but for who I am. My dark side says: “I am no good…I deserve to be pushed aside, forgotten, rejected, and abandoned.”

Today I’m choosing to “take a critical look at the circumstances” and “try to understand”.

A little over a week ago I announced that I was going to teach two special Yoga Nidra classes. I decided to try something. I decided to try pitching an event rather than just my normal weekly classes. I decided to charge money and make people pay ahead of time in an effort to value myself and what I have to offer. I thought Yoga Nidra would be a good event/workshop type class to start with, since it’s very accessible for all levels, and I picked an evening time since I’ve had a number of people tell me it would be easier for them to come in the evening after their kids are in bed. I also decided to put myself out there and market the classes in a way that I haven’t before – putting out lots of clear asks, updates, reminders, and info about yoga Nidra.

When I launched I told myself I’d have no problem filling the classes and some part of me believed that.

Now it’s been a week and a half since I announced the events, the first class is 5 days away, and only 2 people have signed up

I don’t want to admit that. I don’t want to publicly share that only 2 people signed up so far.

The psychology-intrigued side of me says don’t share, if you make people think others haven’t signed up then they won’t want to either. People want to be where other people are, where things are happening. That’s when the shame side of me jumps in with a very clear, “Plus, admitting only 2 signed up will just prove to everyone how lame and insignificant you are.”

Shame is loud on this one.

Another voice rises up and tries to fight, pointing out that someone choosing not to come may have nothing to do with me. In fact it almost certainly has nothing to do with me. Each person has every right to make the choice that’s right for them in this moment and maybe this class just isn’t for them. That’s fine. It’s not going to be for everyone. Not everything I offer will be for everyone. I’m not going to be for everyone. I get that.

But shame doesn’t stop there and back off, of course not. Shame continues to berate me with all the other classes, and projects, offerings and dreams that haven’t been chosen, that no one showed up for, that failed. I begin to wonder if I’m for anyone, maybe I really don’t have anything to offer the world, maybe no one likes what I put out there. I am useless. I am insignificant. I am nothing. I am nobody. 

I take a deep breath. I take captive every thought and surround it with larger truth, “Jesus loves me”. Then I pull myself back from the edge, “Two people signed up, that’s not no one. I’m for those two. They are for me. And there’s still time more could sign up.”

I do battle with my thoughts as I sit in the line of cars waiting to pick up my son. My playlist from this morning’s yoga class plays quietly in the background, and just as Shame roars up again, I catch the words of the song echoing, “You’re enough. You’re enough. You’re enough.” My breath catches in my throat and I fight back tears.

I’m enough. 

Statements like this used to bother me, I’d push back with comments like “I’m not enough. That’s the whole point, that’s why I need Jesus. Only Jesus is enough.” Then I realized enough doesn’t mean perfect. What I need to know in those moments when my heart longs to hear “you’re enough” is that I have nothing to prove, nothing to protect, nothing to gain or force or strive after.

I am enough for Jesus right where I am, right as I am. I am enough for the life he’s placed me in. I don’t have to work, and strive, and pull myself up from my boot straps. I don’t have to kill myself to be something I’m not. I can be me, as he made me. I already have everything I need for life and godliness through Christ Jesus. It’s enough. My weak, feeble hands are enough. I don’t have to kill myself to gain favor, to be accepted, to be significant. I’m enough already. For one generation the phrase that struck the heart was, “Just as I am”, for another it’s “I am enough.”

I turn the music down and open the door for my son. As he climbs in, I think about how I never want him to feel less than, or small, to shrink back from the good God created him for, or to doubt that God created him for any good at all. But I know that he will. Because we all do.

Today I’m feeling “less than” because only a few people signed up for my class. Yesterday, I felt “less than” for entirely different reasons. What I need at both times is a reminder of my original significance, of the value God gives his children, of my identity, not as struggling floundering yoga instructor, or as failing mom, or temperamental wife, or whatever else, but a reminder of my truest, deepest, core identity as “beloved”.

I am loved. 
You are loved. 
We are loved. 

And so I fight shame, and the desire to shrink back, not by puffing up and making you think lots of people have signed up and I’m this great yoga instructor leading all these classes, but with Satya: truthfulness.

I fight shame by getting honest, and open, by pulling off the cover and revealing that which I’d rather keep hidden. I fight shame by showing you my insecurity, my fear, my self-rejection, and claiming something different over myself.

I fight shame by sharing that only 2 people have signed up so far.

Friends, please know I don’t share that to manipulate you into signing up or to put pressure (or shame) on you – God forbid!!! There is complete and total freedom for you, friends. You don’t have to come to my class to prove that you love me or that I’m significant. The truth is you can’t do that anyway, even if you did come to my class. I could have a full class and still feel insignificant and unloved. As long as my self-worth is tied to other people I will always ride a roller coaster of self-rejection. What I need is not affirmation, what I need is to accept the love God pours out on me, to believe that I am valuable to him.

John Philip Newell writes in his book A New Harmony, “What is it we need to know in our lives? That we are loved. That we have always been loved.” We can’t know this simply by other people telling us, we have to claim it for ourselves. We have to take hold of love.

Henri Nouwen writes in Life of The Beloved:

Aren’t you, like me, hoping that some person, thing, or event will come along to give you that final feeling of inner well-being you desire?…But as long as you are waiting for that mysterious moment you will go on running helter-skelter, always anxious and restless, always lustful and angry, never fully satisfied. You know that this is the compulsiveness that keeps us going and busy, but at the same time makes us wonder whether we are getting anywhere in the long run. This is the way to spiritual exhaustion and burn-out. This is the way to spiritual death.

Well, you and I don’t have to kill ourselves. We are Beloved. We are intimately loved long before our parents, teachers, spouses, children, and friends loved or wounded us. That’s the truth of our lives. That’s the truth spoken by the voice that says, “You are my Beloved.”

I am loved. 
You are loved.
We are loved. 

Breath it in friends. Claim it.

Grace and peace,

If you like this post please consider buying me a cup of tea (Suggested: $3 a cup)

On Hawaii and The Senses

I was a pre-teen when we first started coming here. For awhile we came almost every summer. It’s not really one of my childhood places, it’s not where I grew up. But I have roots here. And they are specific in nature. 

My skin was covered in salt and sand and sun. I had spent a good portion of the morning swimming in the ocean with my daughter and by the time I came into the room to gather food for lunch my hair was large with frizzy curls and my cheeks were slightly pink. I glanced in the mirror and that’s when it hit me, like a wave knocking me over. 

I like what I see.” 

The thought felt so foreign to me that I paused to think about it longer. No it wasn’t a completely foreign thought, more like a visitor you only see on short rare occasions. And then I realized it was a visitor I was most familiar with in this place. I feel pretty in Hawaii. Attractive. Beautiful. Even sexy. 

Why? What is it about this place that makes me feel that way. Because I don’t normally feel that way. And honestly I could recognize the person in the mirror, she didn’t look all that different from the person I saw in the mirror at home. Sure her cheeks were sun kissed and her hair was wild and free and curlier than normal, but she still had the same flabby tummy and the same flat butt and the same blotchy pimply skin and the same wrinkles and the same slightly saggy breasts. All the things I normally focus on and obsess over, the things that make me feel anything but pretty or sexy or beautiful, they were all still there when I paused and looked again. But for a moment I could see those things and yet not see them, because what I felt was beautiful.


Something about this place makes me feel more alive, more beautiful, and more like a women than anywhere else I’ve ever been. 

Perhaps it is the timing this place holds in my life. It’s my coming of age place. 

My parents would come here on their own when I was a little girl and I wanted so much to join them, but I was always told I wasn’t “old enough.” 

And then one summer I was old enough. 

Coming here was almost akin to a rite of passage. My parents only let us come once we were old enough to make our own lunches and fend for ourselves. It was a place where everyone was responsible for themselves and got to determine for themselves how they moved through the day. I would run around all day on the beach, play in the waves, spent hours reading and sun bathing on the sand, and go for long walks by myself. While we were here I could determine my own days, I was the captain of my own ship.
This place makes me feel like an actual adult. Not in the way that buying a house or having a baby made me feel like an adult, but in the sense that this place communicates to me that I am old enough to make my own decisions and follow my own desires.


But Hawaii doesn’t just make me feel like any adult it makes me feel like a woman. And it makes me feel like it’s ok, even good to be a women in my own skin, in touch with the senses. 

Because everything here plays to the senses. 

For me Hawaii has always been a sensual experience, a place devoted to the senses and where sensuality was not something dangerous to be avoided, or something superficial to be pushed past, instead it was celebrated. 

My trips here were always about the sensations. The sound of the waves crashing, or the wind moving through the palm trees. The feel of the sand between my toes, the water enveloping my skin as I dove under a wave, the warmth of the sun on my shoulders. The way papaya seems almost to melt in my mouth, the sharp sweetness of pineapple, the flavor of perfectly cooked fish fresh off the grill. The view of a rainbow after a sudden shower, the vivid colors at sunset, the way the light plays on the water. This is a place made for the senses and somehow experiencing life sensually, fully engaging in the senses, leads me to a feeling of contentedness with my own being, with my own skin, with being a part of this world that is so full of color and sensation. 

The senses remind us that we are alive and that it is good to be alive. They tell us something all of our philosophy has struggled to understand and rarely gotten right. They tell us that we are physical body and it is good to be a physical body alive in a physical, beautiful, good world.

This practice of engaging in the senses somehow transforms the way I experience being in my own skin. It makes being in my own skin something good, not something to criticize or fix, avoid or overcome. 
Perhaps that sounds strange, but the truth is I have not always been in places where it feels ok and even good to be a physical being, and especially a woman. I am often still in places where I do not feel comfortable in my own skin or in touch with my senses, and I am surrounded by others who are uncomfortable in their own skin and with their own senses. 

We are not just spiritual beings who happen to have bodies. We are spiritual bodies. We are whole beings, not divided, and our bodies are not just part of us, they are us. The God who is One, created us as one. When I criticize and demean my body, I am criticizing and demeaning my heart, my soul, my very God-created self. When I criticize and demean my body I am criticizing and demeaning the image of God within me. 

Perhaps the first step towards moving away from the sort of body shaming and critiquing I am so good at is to recognize that I am one being not many. My physicality is not something to be avoided, feared, or ignored. Perhaps I need to start by celebrating the senses, engaging in them, fully experiencing them, letting them take me over and pull me into the present moment, because when I feel all the goodness and beauty of this world through my senses, when I experience the ways in which this physical body allows me to experience this amazing world, well, then it becomes a lot easier to see the good in my body than the bad. My own body gets to become part of the good, beautiful, amazing world I get to experience.

This world is clearly broken, and there is a lot that is heartbreaking and terrifying and gut-wrenchingly wrong, but it was also created good, by a good God who desires to give good gifts. And like this world my body is broken, it is not perfect, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t good. This physical body is still a good gift from a good Father, who values the physical so much that he refused to abandon it and instead chooses to redeem it. All of it. 
This body may not be exactly as I’d like. I may have more allergies than I wish, and according to my doctor, the asthmatic lungs of an 84 year old rather than a 34 year old. My stomach isn’t flat, it’s curved. My skin still breaks out almost as much as it did when I was 16. But this body of mine, it is good. It can taste and touch and see and hear so much that is good. 

This body is a grace, pure grace. 

So I pause and look in the mirror a little longer. Thanking my body for all it does to enable me to experience this one brilliant and beautiful life. 

And it feels good. 

And I like the beautiful girl that stares back at me. 

Grace and peace,

Bethany Stedman 

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Remembering Papa: A Glimpse Into Grief


My breath catches as I walk up the driveway to the front door. There’s a knot in my stomach and a fluttery feeling in my chest. My limbs shake slightly. The sensation takes me instantly back to the first time I walked up these steps. Was it really 11 years ago?

Bryan and I had recently gotten engaged and were right in the midst of planning our wedding when a trip to California landed us on their door step for dinner. I had heard so much about Raffi and Ginger and now I was about to meet the legend. There was a knot in my stomach, a fluttering in my chest and a shakiness to my limbs then too. The sensation had been similar, but the reason entirely different.

I so deeply wanted them to like me, to approve of the girl their grandson had chosen to marry. If I could go back I would have told my younger self to stop being so self-conscious because the legendary family figure I was about to meet, was not only legendary, he was also kind and generous and deeply loving. Before I had even made it through the door they were telling me to call them Papa and Gram rather than Raffi and Ginger. I didn’t need to earn their approval, I was already in, I was already welcomed, I was already part of the family. Bryan loved me and that was enough.

I don’t think I will ever forget the smile on Papa’s face or the twinkle in his eye that first time he greeted me and welcomed me into his house. He kissed my cheek as he spoke with the unique accent acquired through moving often and learning multiple languages from a young age, “Welcome! Welcome.”

As I walk up the steps now the house looks exactly the same as the last time we were here. I keep expecting Papa to come out and greet me with a hug. The best hug. But, everything feels different. He isn’t here.

The door is open already, perhaps anticipating our arrival, perhaps just left, forgotten by the last person who entered. Papa and Gram’s dog, Jake, comes over to say hello and two little dogs I don’t yet know run up to Sage as we walk through the front door. She bursts into a smile and I brush at my eyes with the back of my hand. I inhale sharply and push Sage through to the back yard, she wants to sit outside with grandpa. Once she’s content I leave her with my father-in-law so I can get her food prepared.

That’s when I see Gram. She comes towards me as I walk toward the kitchen. We hug. I want to hold her longer, to let her know how deeply I hurt for her. But, the hug is quick. I know if I linger long with her I won’t be able to control the sobs. She is facing my own deepest fear.

I move quickly to the kitchen and fill a syringe with food for Sage. As I stand at the sink images of Papa standing in this very spot flash through my mind. My eyes are wet now, but I know I can’t yet release myself to the tears. A single drop of water slides down my cheek and I brush it quickly away with the edge of my thumb.

By the time I make it back to Sage I’ve said hello to everyone. The group is intimate and full of red faces, and watery eyes – Papa’s sisters and their spouses, a nephew of Papa’s, a few close friends, and our group. We eat together and talk, share stories and memories, laugh and cry. The spread of meat and salad and fruit gets cleared from the dinning room table and pie and cakes get set out in the kitchen.

Before long it’s time for the kids to go to bed. Thaddeus is running a high fever and falls asleep quickly on the couch. I set Sage up with a movie on the iPad while I prepare her medications. As I move back and forth between the kitchen and the couch I find my husband weeping on the living room floor with his parents and sister. I cannot think of any time in my life when I’ve witnessed a whole group of people weeping together in that way. It feels like sacred ground.

Everything within me wants to go to him, to be with him in his grief, to weep as well in my own grief over Papa, but I know instinctively that the best way I can care for my husband is to let him have this moment, this sacred moment of pure grief with his family. I know that the best way I can care for him is to care for our children and relieve him of having to deal with parental duties for a night. So I walk quietly past and get Sage ready for bed. But I can’t stop the tears from coming now, I can only hold them at bay so they spill silently out of my eyes.

By the time Sage is ready for bed and happily engaged with a movie the group has gathered in the kitchen. They form a sort of semi-circle around the one counter that sticks out into the middle of the room. The wine has been put away now and replaced with vodka. Each person holds a shot glass of clear Russian liquid in one hand. They stand close, touching each other.

As I enter the room they all burst into laughter, the sort of laughter that is colored by both the grief and the joy of remembering.

“I’ll sneak in close to Bryan,” I think silently to myself, but then I see him. He is standing close to the counter, in the middle of the circle, his dad’s arm is around his shoulders and a few people stand sort of behind him. I can get to him, but it would feel like interrupting and this too feels like a sacred moment, I don’t want to break the spell. So I stand back a few paces behind him, watching.

Gram starts off the next toast, but it’s not really about Papa, it’s about Bryan. About how special he was to Papa and how much he loved him, how worried they had been about Bryan’s cancer and how grateful everyone is that he’s doing well. My breath feels heavy as my face wrinkles into tears. My arms ache and I wish even more deeply that we were standing next to each other, that his arm was around me.

“To Papa… and to Bryan.”

I raise my water bottle as they raise their shots and we all drink. The liquid doesn’t burn like alcohol, but it does feel grounding. Swallowing gives me something to focus on, something to keep the sobs from breaking out of my throat. I push the tears out of my eyes as I walk back to the couch to check on Sage.



The day had been full – visiting with family, shopping for things still needed for the funeral, dinner at Fashion Island. Tears fill both kids eyes as we carry them up to the hotel room. I lay down on the bed next to Sage trying to soothe her overtired body to sleep. Eventually she closes her eyes but I know she isn’t fully asleep yet. If I move it will wake her. So I pull out my phone and take the opportunity of stillness to clear away the little red bubbles that had accumulated on the screen.

I check Timehop last, and as soon as I open it I am confronted with his face staring back at me with all the strength and all the softness that had always been there. I inhale sharp, and then slowly exhale. With controlled movements I slide away from Sage’s now sleeping body and walk over to where Bryan stands near the pull out couch he just got Thad to sleep on.

“Are you ok?” He asked.

“No. I’m not,” I snapped slightly, “I just need a break. I want to be on with the children so you don’t have to be, but today was hard. Thad’s feeling better and was all over the place. It’s just a lot and I sort of want to scream right now. It’s fine… I just can’t go to sleep yet, I need a little time to recover and unwind.” I can feel my shoulders tensing as I speak.

“Ok,” he walks towards me. “That’s fine. I know I wasn’t very available today and I appreciate everything you do for me and the kids. I know it’s hard traveling with them, especially Sage. Is there anything I can do now?”

“No, it’s fine. I just need some time. Maybe I’ll do some yoga.”

I pause and look around the room, “Actually would you get my mat from the car? It’s in the back.”

“Sure. No problem.” He says and heads out of the room.

I lay across the bed and take slow deep breaths.

The door opens and Bryan walks back in carrying my mat towards me. “I really do appreciate you so much. Thank you for taking care of things so I can just be with my family.” He reaches his arms around me and I can feel myself melting.

He holds me for a minute and then I whisper, “Papa was in my timehop tonight.” My voice cracks as I speak the words and my eyes begin to water. We pull slightly away and look at one another. “It was pictures from Geoff and Devon’s wedding, seven years ago.”

“Is today their anniversary?” Bryan asks with eyes wide and voice trembling.

“I don’t know… I don’t think so. It might have been a few days ago and this was just when I shared the pictures…” My voice trails off as tears flow more freely now, “They’ve had such a hard year.”

“I really want to see Geoff.” Bryan says and we both embrace again crying on behalf of Bryan’s uncle.
We glance at the kids and move into the hotel bathroom.

“I miss Papa,” Bryan says.

“Me too,” I reply, choking on the words.

There is now no attempt to hold back tears. We sit down on the edge of the bathtub and cry together.

Bryan talks and I listen.

I talk and Bryan listens.

I talked about things I saw in both him and his grandfather.

I sob and tell him my secret, quiet fear, “When Papa first got sick… I started praying, not only for his healing, but another prayer,” I pause, the words feel stuck in my throat. “I prayed ‘Not in the same year. Not in the same year, don’t take Papa and Bryan in the same year.’ And now…” I paused again to catch my breath between sobs. “I know it’s irrational, but now I feel like a ticking clock is hanging over my head counting down one year.” I barely managed to get the last words out between sobs.

Bryan touches my arm. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

It’s what he always tells me. We both know what a meaningless statement it is and how we have so little control over how much time either of us have on this earth, but somehow it still makes me feel better. I smile at him. We sit there for a long time more, talking and crying together.

“This is what I really needed,” I say. “More than yoga, or a break from the kids. I needed to really cry, to feel it all, rather than trying to hold it in.”


Tuesday at the Cathedral:

I push Sage’s wheel chair up to the outer edge of the pew and instruct Thaddeus to sit down near me. Bryan moves past the kids and works his way to the other end of the pew to sit next to his mom and sister. Next to them in the middle of the isle is the coffin. There are flowers on top of it and a small ornate bowl. Smoke rises in little curls out of the bowl. Frankincense, I assume. I watch the spirals rise, mesmerized for a moment, and think of how many others have watched this smoke hover over their loved one.

The kids sit quietly as I take in the surroundings. I know they won’t stay this quiet for long, but I’m grateful while it lasts. The cathedral is covered in golds and deep reds. There seems to be icons and paintings and stained glass in every direction I look. In the front big bundles of flowers rest on stands and a large portrait of Papa smiles out over the Cathedral, tears rush to my eyes as I look from the picture, which is so full of life and gentle love, to the coffin.

“Is that a bible?” Thaddeus asks pointing to a book resting in the little shelf on the back of the pew in front of us. The cover of the book has large Armenian letters sprawled across it.

“I think so,” I reply. “But we need to be quiet now, remember.” I whisper the words in his ear and he wiggles and nods his head in reply.

Two men in robes are speaking in Armenian now, they move from the front of the cathedral to stand in the isle directly in front of the coffin. I watch as they walk the length of the coffin until they are standing almost in the middle of church. They motion for us to stand. I take Sage’s hand in my right hand and Thaddeus’ in my left as I stand to my feet. We watch the men in robes.

Their words are foreign, I don’t understand their meaning, but the sound is beautiful. They chant the words in what is almost a song and I close my eyes to listen. Thaddeus lays down on the seat next to me and my eyes lift open again.

“We need to stand,” I whisper. But just then the priest motions for us to sit and everyone quietly does.

The men in robes move back to the front of the cathedral and in a heavy accent one of them precedes to read verses from the bible in English. There were no microphones or sound systems, his voice is soft and though it carries well to the second row I wonder if those in the back can hear at all. I still only catch a few words here and there, just enough to know they changed languages and that they are reading the bible.

I take one arm around Thaddeus and gently draw him close into my side, an effort to keep him from moving all over the bench. Sage points to the book with the Armenian title and makes a slight squeak indicating she wants it. I take the book and open it at random, holding it out in front of her with one hand while my other hand holds Thad close. She flips pages and I attempt to listen.

The priests are moving back down the isle and to the front of the coffin again now, directing us to again take to our feet. I stand and instruct Thad to stand. He doesn’t want to, I hesitate for a moment trying to determine if it’s somethings worth fighting or not. It isn’t. I let him sit. At least he’s being quiet.

I look towards the coffin, but my eyes fall on Gram instead. She has one arm wrapped around Geoff, who in turn has one arm wrapped around her. My mother-in-law sits in the pew directly behind Gram, and the two women grasp hands over the back of the pew. Tears cling to my eye lids and threaten to turn into full fledged sobs when I see them, these two heartbroken women holding hands and hearts as they grief a man they both loved.

Thaddeus yawns loudly and I look at him as I bring a single finger to my lips reminding him to be quiet. “What?” He whispers, “I needed to yawn.”

My heart breaks a little looking at him, knowing how little he understands the significance of this day, this moment. I wish he was older, more able to remember Papa. Sage pulls at my shirt, wanting to again look at the book which I had set down when I stood. Thankfully the priest is directing us to sit again now and I open it back up in front of her as I sit.

Soon the priest is directing Geoff to come up for the eulogy. He wears a robe as well, and stands at the front as he shares about his fathers incredible life. Thaddeus listens now. His head whips around to me with wide eyes when Geoff says that Papa killed a bear and made his own bear jerky, was held at gun point, saved an ally fighter pilot whose plane crashed, went sky diving, and caught a lobster as big as himself. “Really?” Thaddeus asks. “Yeah, really. Listen.” I instruct. He doesn’t know the half of it. This man, we grief, this man who’s name we gave to Thad as his middle name, was one of the bravest, most interesting men I’ve ever met.


Tuesday at the Grave Sight:

The back of my high heeled shoe catches slightly in the soft grass on the steep hill and I fumble to find my balance as I walk towards the grave site. There’s a tent set up with chairs under it but no one is sitting there. Gram and Geoff and a few other close family members stand a bit in front of the tent. The rest of the group spreads out on the grass behind it. I notice Tamara and Raúl standing on the other side of the red covering with baby Raffi in the stroller and I push Sage’s wheel chair over to them.

“Can I run down the hill?” Thaddeus asks at a volume that feels a little too loud.

“Not yet,” I whisper to him as I notice that the priest is already speaking, or rather chanting, again in Armenian.

The two robed figures who had made their way back and forth around the coffin at the cathedral now do the same here. Eventually they pour dirt, or something resembling ashes, out of a vile onto the top of the coffin. It was a stark picture, that quickly brought to mind the oft quoted phase, “ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

The priest then invites the family to receive a blessing and family members move then into the shade of the awning to stand and wait their blessing. He priest moves from one to the other resting a gold cross momentarily on each forehead. It felt too quick and rushed. I wanted him to linger. I wanted time to pray blessings over each of them. As it was I glanced away for but a moment and he was finished.

A pastor friend of Geoff’s gets up and speaks now. He calls us to hope, reminding us of the hope we have in Christ. “We do not grieve as the world grieves.” I believe every word, I hold fast to the hope of the resurrection of the dead, but it falls a little flat on my ears.

I don’t want hope, I want to cry.

I want to feel the extent of the loss and separation and it feels right to do so in this moment. There will be time for hope, now feels like the time for lament. I don’t want to rush too quickly to victory. I know it’s coming, but we aren’t there yet. And right now I feel so deeply the need to sit in the not yet, the distance, the grief.

Perhaps it is not one or the other though, perhaps it is exactly right to hold hope, and hear hope, and be called to hope, even when our victory feels far off, even when we don’t want the testimony, we want the lamentation, even in the midst of gravesite grief.

I ponder the balance in my mind as I stare out over the coffin. The grave sits near the top of a hill looking out over a picturesque landscape of rolling hills scattered with graves. More graves than I can count. I begin to feel a little dizzy and shift my weight from one foot to the other. Thaddeus hangs on my legs and I struggle to keep my balance on the steep slope. By this point Bryan and Tamara have also moved to the shade of the awning and I find myself standing in a small cluster with Blake and Raúl, the three of us forming a group of our own – family, but not blood.

Soon white roses are being handed out to the family members in the awning, a symbol by which they can honor Raffi. I watch as one by one they lay their flowers on top of the coffin. My sight blurs with tears as I notice Stella, Papa’s sister, walking away from the coffin. Her face is wrinkled with sobs and she trips slightly before being caught by her son. The two awkwardly hold each other and cry as they catch their balance. My chest feels tight watching them. It feels as if we should all be sobbing, tripping, and breaking down, but at this point the group is largely controlled, quiet, somber.

The family finishes placing their flowers and the rest of the group is invited to take a flower and pay their respects as well.

“Would you like to go up?” Bryan comes over and asks in soft tones.

“Yes. I’ll take Thad with me.” I reply.

Thaddeus and I make our way over to the flowers and each take a red rose in our fingers. We walk slowly over to the coffin and lay the flowers across the top. Then I go back to get Sage. With some difficulty I take her out of her wheel chair and hold her in my arms, removing my high heels and walking barefoot now to be certain I don’t trip. The grass feels soft and cool on my feet. I struggle to hold Sage’s weight as she twists and wiggles, but we manage to get her a flower and get in line behind the other mourners. As we draw near the coffin I set her down on her feet and, supporting her under her arms, ask her to walk. She takes a few steps forward walking up to the side of the coffin. I smile thinking of how Papa had called once and told us that he’d had a dream about Sage walking and talking. I took a deep breath, brushed a tear away with the back of my hand, and lifted Sage up so she could place a flower on the coffin of a man who loved her and believed in her.


Tuesday at the house:

By the time we get there the house is full. Cars line the street on both sides. Traffic had made us late and a little bit cranky. I rush the kids inside, eager to find a place for them while I get Sage’s food prepared.

I recognize many of the faces, but most of them are unknown to me. We hand Thad a plate of food and direct him to sit on the couch to eat, while we prepare our own plates. I felt awkward and uncomfortable, not knowing who to talk with, not knowing what to say, not really wanting to talk at all, mostly just wanting to cry. I feel torn between my children, trying to keep Sage occupied and stay on top of her 15 minute feedings, but also wanting to keep an eye on Thad and make sure he doesn’t interject himself in ways that would interfere with the grieving of my husband or anyone else.

We stay mostly in the living room while the bulk of the guests gather outside. But often as I move around the house I catch glimpses of Geoff. Every time I see him he is talking with someone different. Every time I overhear him he is talking about Papa, and telling who ever he is talking to how much Papa loved them. His eyes are red and his cheeks are stained with tears. His grief is tangible but he isn’t letting it distance himself from others. He is fully present. Watching him, even from afar, feels like watching a work of grace in action.

Eventually I take Thaddeus upstairs to play a game of pool. The room is quiet and I can picture Papa standing in it with a cue in his hand. When we first told Thaddeus that Papa had died he asked a simple question, “Is he the one who taught me how to play pool.” In his young mind that is the memory that stands out to him and it seems fitting that we now play a round of pool at Papa’s wake.

I help Thad pick out a cue and show him how to hold it. Then I watch as he struggles to hit the white ball with enough force and precision to force another ball into motion. It feels like a quiet moment of oasis in the middle of a crowded emotional day.

Eventually I go back down stairs to give Sage another dose of food. I find Bryan outside standing by his mom and venture over for a quick hug before finding Sage. He’s standing directly under a shade awning used to block the sun from the patio and as I walk up it breaks crashing onto Bryan’s head. He stands for a moment, “I’m fine. I’m fine.” And for just a moment I really think he is, and then he begins to sink, almost as if he was melting in slow motion down towards the ground.

The whole group turns and watches. A doctor in the crowd rushes over. Someone runs and gets him some ice.

“I’m ok,” he says, “I think I just need to sit down.”

I follow him to the couch and we sit there for awhile mostly in silence. His parents come to check on him and sit with us. I watch the people moving about the house – from the patio to the family room, from the family room to the patio. They talk, sharing stories, and I again notice Geoff. His body language is open, a hand on someone’s shoulder, a leaning in, towards people. He cries readily, but he also smiles easily and laughs quickly too. He grieves with grace. He is concerned not just with his own grief, but also the grief of the other.

“I think I could use some fresh air,” Bryan says from beside me and we decide to go for a short walk around the block. We hold hands as we push the wheelchair down the drive way. Sage smiles, excited to be outside and moving.

The air is growing cool now as the sun sinks low. I notice the star jasmine growing in a neighbors yard and think of the star jasmine the kids had picked and rubbed between their fingers in front of the cathedral before the funeral. I wonder if jasmine will always remind me of Papa’s funeral now?

When we draw near the house again we can hear the voices carrying from the back yard out into the street. We don’t bother going through the house, but go straight around to the back. Bryan’s cousin stands in the middle of the crowd with a glass raised.

Toasting to papa.

Toasting to Papa’s mom.

Toasting to the rich family history and Armenian tradition of which they are a part.

We have nothing to toast with but our hearts drink in the words and toast for us. I squeeze Bryan’s hand and go to find Thad. When I come back outside I find Sage with flowers in her hair… jasmine flowers.

As the evening fades into night I find myself outside with Sage, waiting as the others say their goodbyes, so they can take longer without feeling rushed by the children. Geoff comes over and sits next me, thanking me for being there.

“I really loved your dad, Geoff.” I choke on the words but manage to get them out without completely breaking into sobs. I look away at Sage not sure if I could handle looking him directly in the eye.

“He really loved you too.” Geoff replies and I know he means it.

Papa may not have been my grandpa, I didn’t grow up with him, but I felt loved by him, every time I was with him, from the very first time I walked shakily up his front steps to the last time I saw him, weak, but still with the same caring smile and big hug ready for me. I brushed a few tears off my cheek. Sage honks the horn on the little toy car she is playing with and smiles up at us. Geoff and I sit and look at Sage as the night grows darker.


Grace and peace,
Bethany Stedman

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